


Call Me Emerson

by YouWannaGoBro



Category: Trolls (2016)
Genre: F/M, Human AU, Recreational Drug Use, although i'm ninety percent sure most of us aren't children, because thats where we should have this discussion, in a fanfic for an animated movie intended for children, theatre kids au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 21:33:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9846050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouWannaGoBro/pseuds/YouWannaGoBro
Summary: Poppy Kingsley is everyone's friend and that's something really difficult to accomplish in a school with over a thousand students and faculty members. But Poppy managed it all with a smile.Only-- wait, hold on. Who is that? Poppy doesn't know him.New face means a new friend!This should be easy... right?





	1. Everyone's Friend

**Author's Note:**

> A theatre kids AU that no one asked for and that I started working on almost immediately after I watched the movie the first time. Then I came on this site and saw that someone had already done something really similar but meh. I'm committed at this point.
> 
> I'm not sold on the title. That might change.

Everyone loves Poppy Kingsley.

From the moment she was born (inexplicably giggling rather than crying, startling the doctors) through kindergarten (when she always brought cupcakes for the whole class on anyone’s birthday) and middle school (which she spent organizing studying groups for everyone and on committees to ensure everyone was having the best school experience possible) and finally to high school. It had been a challenge, befriending every single person in her high school. There were over a thousand students, roughly 150 faculty members, and some assorted administration members from the district who would stop by frequently enough to be considered part of the school’s community. Of course, that didn’t stop Poppy. It took a few months of her freshamn year but soon enough she’d achieved it. Poppy Kingsley, everyone’s friend.

After that she could move on to her other interests. The girl became an active member of the student council and theatre club and, by junior year, she was president of the former and the almost constant female lead of the latter. Junior year had only started two months ago and she was already being assured by everyone and anyone that she had their vote for prom queen. Her boyfriend, Craig, had their vote for King.

Craig and Poppy had known each other since middle school. They’d met in theatre class and been inseparable since. He was kind and took like as it came, claiming to practice buddhism in order to really embrace his _chill_. In addition to being the recurring male lead of the theatre club, Craig was also a star player on the school’s baseball team. He had wavy, chin length hair with a flawless ombre dye that Poppy envied joyously. When she told him as much, he swore he’d much rather have her beautiful strawberry blonde locks. Craig and Poppy were definitely in love and would probably get married after college, proudly touting the title of high school sweethearts.

All of this was fact. Poppy walked into her AP English class with a small smile, nodding to the room full of friends before her. She paused at the sight of a teen standing in front of the teacher’s desk, handing Mrs. Shortman a paper with a frown.

Mrs. Shortman herself had been a great challenge to befriend. The woman was a long-term substitute for AP English and theatre club; being an old friend of the usual teacher who was out on paternity leave, she had agreed to do Mr. Simmons a favor and watch over his special students while he was gone. Her actual job was that of a nationally renowned author and poet, although few had connected the dots the way Poppy had when the woman first started teaching them. Mrs. Shortman typically published under her maiden name despite having taken her husband's last name. Poppy suspected it was to keep people from tracking her down and showering her with praise. The teenager had only discovered Mrs. Shortman’s actual career because of her constant attempts to befriend the woman. Being quite grumpy, the blonde teacher had largely ignored Poppy’s attempts at friendship. It had taken the girl a month to find the golden ticket to earning the teacher’s friendship: her husband. 

Unlike Mrs. Shortman, who was blunt to the point of being called rude, sarcastic, and all too fond of scowling, Mr. Shortman was incredibly kind-hearted, generous, and seemed to have a wide grin for every one of his wife’s scowls. Poppy had never seen the teacher smile until she’d seen her with her husband. She’d seen smirks and conceited grins but never one of those soft, sweet smiles that people liked to save for the people they loved. Mr. Shortman ( _call me Arnold, please. Mr. Shortman sounds so-_ ) was far easier to befriend than Mrs. Shortman ( _shut up, Arnold-o. Kingsley, you will call us by our last names. If anyone of the other students find out I’ve been going soft on you, they’ll pounce and try to overthrow me_ ). Poppy had quickly learned the married couple was a package deal. Befriend one, you’ve befriended both. Make an enemy of one and it’s in your best interest to leave the country under the cover of night because both were quite terrifying when angered. They had amazing stories from their lives together that Poppy loved listening to. When they just children, they’d gone on a school trip to a country in Latin America called San Lorenzo and-

Poppy had never seen the teen standing in front of Mrs. Shortman’s desk before, so she realized he must be new. Somewhat skipping over to the desk, the girl offered the teacher and student pair a bright smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Shortman,” Poppy chirped joyfully, ignoring the frown that marred the blonde woman’s face. Poppy was well aware the teacher was not a morning person. Extending her hand out to the new teen, the redhead volunteered a greeting. “Nice to meet you! I’m Poppy Kingsley. You’re new, right? Would you like someone to show you around the school?”

While the boy and teacher frowned and exchanged a glance with raised eyebrows, Poppy quickly observed the new student. He had short, dark hair that was spiked upwards and kind of shined a navy blue where the light hit it. Speaking of blue, his eyes were a particularly bright shade that reminded the girl of the violets in her father’s garden. He had a deep tan that somehow seemed cold and almost grey tinted, rather than exuding warmth and heat the way tans like Craig’s typically did. (Poppy knew Craig’s tan was largely courtesy of tanning salons and, while she didn’t approve, she didn’t interfere. It was his body.) His dark skin was marred by a litany of dark bruises and scrapes, all uncovered, which had Poppy’s fingers twitching to reach for the pack of band-aids she always carried around with her. One particularly blue and purple splotch between his left eye and respective eyebrow was especially worrying. The clothes he wore looked like the kind that cluttered thrift store racks for months on end before finally being put out of their misery and donated to charity: old, tattered, and dull colors with obvious holes that had been stitched closed by an inexperienced hand. Everything in Poppy squirmed violently with the urge to hug him and pamper him and take him home and give him cocoa and probably a bath too (because he had a layer of dirt that seemed as much a part of him as his own skin).

“No,” the boy finally responded. “I’m not.” He grunted something of a goodbye to Mrs. Shortman and slowly made his way to a desk in the back of the classroom next to a window.

“Um,” Poppy furrowed her eyebrows and glanced between the boy and the teacher. “What? Mrs. Shortman, who is he?”

“That’s Brad Azuletta. He’s a junior like you. He’s been here since his freshman year. I happen to have dragged him into this class after running into him at the… _library_.” The blonde woman shifted her blue eyes away and Poppy figured that it was in her best interest not to ask about whatever incident occurred somewhere that definitely wasn’t the library. _Wait-- di she just say that Brad had been here as long as Poppy had?_ Poppy gaped and spun around to stare at the teen.

_He wasn’t her friend._

Evidently Poppy was not everyone’s friend.

This would need to be amended immediately.

~~~~~

_Fuck._

Brad wouldn’t call his life easy or simple. Frankly, he already had his hands full with being an orphan, working two part time jobs, constantly getting into fights with delinquents, being considered a delinquent, getting jumped, getting noticed by the strange blonde woman who beat the shit out of the group that jumped him, finding out said woman was an English teacher at his school, being blackmailed to transfer to her class and be tutored by her and her husband, and general existential angst of the teenage variety-- he did not need the attention of _Poppy -freaking- Kingsley_ on top of that.

The redhead kept spinning around to stare at him during class (and doing a terrible job of being covert as Mrs. Shortman noticed every single time, giving Brad a very amused smirk). Brad knew more than he cared to about the Kinsley girl. She was the school’s darling and _everyone’s friend_. The most popular, most influential, over-all favorite human being of the entire school.

Except _no_. Because he’d never seen her talk to the kids stuck in detention with him. (He might have spotted her high-fiveing the kid that was caught trying to set up a hidden camera in the girl's locker room, so he's pretty sure she doesn't know them well.) She’s never been behind the gym where the potheads would deal and stories of sexual conquests were exchanged. Admittedly, Brad dropped by there sparingly. He had no interest in drugs he couldn't afford and such poorly phrased spoken word poetry. (After Cooper had tried to wax poetic about Mandy's breasts using the words "like, um, two huge round pimples on her chest but with the color inverted and stuff", Brad had resolved to always avoid the area any time he was nearby.) She had certainly never joined the group of students who found a loose window on the top floor of the high school just close enough to the one large oak tree to jump out onto it and climb up it to get to the roof and just sit and stare at the sky. (Because that group of students consisted of a single person. Brad. And Brad didn’t _do_ friendship.) So Poppy Kingsley could not possibly be _everyone’s friend_.

Except maybe she could because Brad was nobody anyway. Nobodies aren’t part of everyone.


	2. The Helga G. Pataki Scholarship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The belligerent theater supervisor summons bellicose and bombastic stagehand to the set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is when I admit to being a "vicarious theatre kid" at best.  
> Because guess who has never taken a single theatre class. Ever. I'm just best friends with someone whose been taking those classes for years and the majority of whose productions I attended. 
> 
> I took visual art classes instead. Heh.

Brad scowled at the man sitting behind the desk. “What?” He growled, the single word barely distinguishable as it was spat from his snarling mouth. He’d been called into the principal’s office as soon as the end of the school day had arrived.

The principal shifted uncomfortably in his chair, looking anywhere but at the menacing 6’3 teen with anger issues in front of him. “We get nothing but complaints about you from your teachers and students. You get into too many fights-”

“I don’t start them. It’s always self defense,” Brad protested.

“You don’t actively participate in your classes-”

“I have a passing attendance record and turn in all of my assignments on time-”

The principal sighed and nervously clenched his sweaty palms. “Your attitude-”

“You can’t suspend me for being a grumpy person!” Brad roared, hands slamming on the principal’s desk.

The man’s mouth opened once more as the door to his office swung open and a tall blonde woman strolled in. “Mrs. Patak- erm, Shortman what are you-”

“Funny thing,” disrespect dripped from her tone as she plopped down into the chair next to a gaping Brad. “I was doing some light reading this morning, _interesting stuff, real page turner_ ,” on that note, she lifted the school’s handbook and a packet labeled _DISTRICT GUIDELINES_. “Wouldn’t ya know it, I couldn’t find a single rule violated by my student that justifies suspension.” With a shrug, her blue eyes drifted to the teen. “I mean, he’s got detention until he’s 30, apparently, but not suspended.”

“Mrs. Shortman,” the man grunted angrily, “this young man is a menace-”

“Boy,” the blonde barked, “he is only a boy. A child.” Brad opened his mouth to protest but was shut down by her quick glare. “And, if I’m not mistaken, I’m in charge of detention scheduling and the discipline of students.”

“Mrs. Shortman,” the principal’s eyebrows scrunched in anger as he huffed, “you may only be working here temporarily but I am still your superior.”

“Oh,” the woman said, her eyes widening in mock surprise as she leaned backwards. “My _apologies_. Of course,” she pulled out her cell phone. “I’ve never been good with authority figures so I’m sure you understand that I can’t quite stick around, yeah?” 

“NO!” The rather rotund man had catapulted to his feet and flung his torso onto his desk. “Mrs. Pata-” her glare cut short the cry of her maiden name, “Mrs. Shortman, you _can’t_ leave! Most of your students have grown quite attached and their parents would have my head, not to mention since you started teaching the students’ scores on the monthly exams testing AP examination prep have increased-”

“I’m sorry to go,” the blonde said with a mocking sigh and a shake of her head, “but I simply can’t stay at a school that would treat students so similar to me in my youth this way.” Both adults turned their heads to gaze at Brad. Mrs. Shortman had a wicked grin on her face. The principal was reexamining him with a critical eye and furrowed eyebrows.

“Similar to _you_?” The principal asked skeptically, his head tilting. Brad wanted to punch him in the mouth.

“Oh, yes. I got into just as many fights as Brad here.” Nodding, her eyes slowly slid to the principal. “Of course, it’s just an outlet for excess passion. That and poetry, another hobby Brad and I share.”

Brad glared at his English teacher. He was really regretting sharing his poetry with her now. She’d seemed so delighted at the time, given him such good critical feedback, and had been so supportive in a way Brad hadn’t thought any human being could be since- Brad had asked her to keep his poetry a secret between them. Well, he hadn’t _asked_ so much as _assumed_ it would be, because this obviously wasn’t something he wanted to share.

“He’s a poet?” The disbelief in the man’s tone just made Brad want to punch him more. Which he hadn’t thought was possible previously but, what do you know, it was _._

“And incredibly talented,” the blonde responded immediately, pride evident in her voice. “Still a work in progress, sure, but he’s going to be someone someday. As big as me, if not bigger.” Her eyes were back on the teen and _holy fuck, she was serious_. She genuinely thought some orphaned, punk Hispanic kid was going to be a nationally recognized poet one day. His blood burned at the warmth in her gaze. He wanted to die so he could be reborn as her kid. Her husband would make an awesome dad too. Imagine how well adjusted and emotionally intelligent he’d be.

“I suppose if he’s such a _promising_ student,” the principal shuffled his hands nervously, “we can find another way to deal with his delinquency problems.”

“I already have the perfect solution,” Mrs. Shortman replied with a grin. “As previously stated, the fighting is simply an outlet for excessive passion. We simply need to replace it with something productive.”

“What do you have in mind?” The principal asked, seeming to have forgotten Brad was in the room at all. To be fair, sometimes Brad forgot he was around too, so he didn’t blame the man.

Mrs. Shortman hadn’t forgotten though. She was looking directly at him when she spoke. “He’ll work with me to refine his poetry and enter some competitions. In addition, rather than attending detention, he’ll help me in the theatre department with preparing the upcoming school play.”

Huffing happily, the principal leaned back in his chair. “This is quite satisfactory. I trust you, Mrs. Shortman, to carry out the necessary procedures.” Glancing at Brad, he gave the teen a curt nod. “Mr. Azuletta.”

With that the pair of poets left the office.

“What the _hell_?” Brad hissed under his breath, glaring down at the teacher. She was not short by any means, being 6’1, but he was still taller, boasting 2 extra inches over her. He was pretty sure she could easily take him in a fight though.

“You’re still in school. You avoided getting a suspension, which colleges would see, and you’re going to win at least a few poetry competitions, which colleges will see. Kiddo, you just got the motherfuckin’ Helga G. Pataki scholarship of a full ride to any college of your choice. Feel free to drop to your knees and kiss my ass at any time.” She said haughtily, raising a thick eyebrow at him.

The worst part was that she was probably wrong. He wasn't sure why she was so sure that he and hs garbage poetry had even the slightest chance of making it past 18. “I’m going to tell Arnold, he’ll be on my side.”

“Ha!” She snorted, laughing loudly. “He’s going to be so excited for you. He’s going to freaking crochet a graduation cap for you-”

“He doesn’t know how to crochet,” Brad reminded her. _Brad_ was the one who knew how to both crochet and knit because sometimes it was cheaper to make the hats and scarves and mittens that’d keep him warm during winter months himself rather than buying the storemade counterparts.

“He’s going to commission a graduation cap from you just so he can give it you because he’ll be that excited, the absolute fluffball,” Helga said in a tone that could only be described as completely amorous. No matter how harsh her words, the blonde absolutely adored her husband.

"And you’re probably going to commission the gown, huh?” He teased.

“What part of the Helga G. Pataki scholarship makes you think I haven’t fulfilled my sacred duty of brotherhood amongst angsty badass teen poets covered in bruises?” She asked. “I’ve done my part.”

“So are you thinking acrylic, cotton, or wool yarn?” Brad asked, ignoring her words

“ _Acrylic_?” She scoffed. “That’s cheap garbage yarn. No way is any kid of mine graduating in a hand-crocheted gown and cap made of _acrylic yarn_. Wool, all the way. That way you’ll be as uncomfortable as possible, something reminiscent of high school itself.” Sometimes she did stuff like that. Called him her kid. It made him melt inside like old chocolate left in someone’s pants’ pocket for a few hours. He tried to tell himself she just meant it colloquially. All her students were her kids. He wasn’t anyone special. She was the special one. She was making something out of him.

“You pay for materials and pay minimum wage and I’ll crochet the cap and knit the gown,” he said.

“Deal,” the blonde said with a nod. “Ready to meet the theatre kids you’ll be working with for the foreseeable future?”

He snorted and raised his eyebrows. “No. When have I ever been ready to meet anyone?”

"It’s not my fault you’re terrible at first impressions,” the teacher grinned. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~

Poppy didn’t have any other classes in common with Brad. He’d only just transferred into AP English so she supposed that it made sense she hadn’t seen him in any of her other classes before. The real question was how she’d never spotted him in the halls or on the fields or outside the school or _anywhere_. She could put a name and at least three hobbies to every face she encountered in the halls. She couldn’t even _find_ Brad.

The girl had run out of time to find him between her last class and after school theatre practice. It was hard to befriend someone when you couldn’t even find them. Sighing in defeat, the girl pumped herself up at the thought of theatre practice. She _loved_ theatre practice. Walking into the auditorium, she noticed most of the students milling about. Mrs. Shortman was running a little late apparently. Oh well. Bouncing over to where Craig sat with some of their friends, Poppy plopped down and enthusiastically joined their conversation.

Roughly five minutes later, the auditorium’s double doors slammed open wide to announce the arrival of their instructor. Everyone immediately fell silent. Two silhouettes stood in the doorway. It was hard to make out the features because of the lighting in the auditorium being focused on the stage where the students sat.

“Hey,” she greeted nonchalantly, striding forward with a slightly taller figure trailing behind her (which was saying something because she was _tall_ ). “I’ve got us a new stagehand. He’s grumpy as hell but a good worker.”

The new stagehand snorted. “ _You_ , of all people, are calling me grumpy?”

“Disgruntled, surly, irritable,” the teacher replied.

“Cantankerous,” the stranger offered.

“Querulous,” Poppy could tell by the sound of the blonde’s voice that she was grinning.

“Truculent,” the stagehand shot back.

“If that’s the reputation you want,” Mrs. Shortman replied teasingly as she stepped into the light.

“If I get to choose,” Poppy was on the brink of recognizing the voice. Then he stepped into the light and the redhead went rigid. _It was him_. “I’d like something more along the lines of militant.”

Poppy grinned wide as she observed the student she’d met earlier today. It was motherpluckin’ _friendship time_.


	3. After School Special

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Shorman's Identity revealed! (In case you hadn't figured that out yet).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm never quite sure what to put in chapter summaries. Like... should I just summarize the chapter? Because that's spoilers. Or should I tease what's about to happen? Because that's also kinda.... ehh.

Helga frowned as watched her theatre kids prepare for their next production. Almost everyone was on task, although there was some curious murmuring about the _new stagehand_. When Brad had immediately supressed all attempts at conversation by his peers so he could get to work on set pieces, Helga had assumed the rest of the kids would get over it and let him acclimate to their space before attempting to befriend him. She knew from personal experience that it takes a while for those with trust issues to let their guards down in a new environment. She’d been surprised when Brad spoke up after she introduced him, thinking he’d be too uncomfortable to. It’d been gratifying to know her presence was comforting enough to him that he got a little snarking session with her in before he shut down and settled into his work.

Her students had work of their own to be focusing on currently, after all. They shouldn’t be trying to talk to Brad, who obviously wasn’t interested in conversation. And yet, Poppy Kingsley, one of her hardest workers and busiest people in the play, was crouched next to Brad (doing his best to completely ignore her) as he carved blocks of styrofoam into rock shapes they were going to be using for forest scenery. Firing a series of questions as quickly as a machine gun at him, the girl tried her hardest to get a response from him so she could get to know him. Brad wouldn’t even look at her.

Honestly, Helga had been a little worried something like this would happen. Poppy was very similar to Arnold and one of their childhood friends, Lila Sawyer. She was kind (to the point of being overbearing), (far too) excitable, popular, and just very-- there wasn’t quite a word that encompassed the whole of it. Bubbly, pink, jubilant, vigorous, effervescent… all the blonde could say for sure was that she probably would’ve hated her if she knew her in high school.

Brad was quite similar to high school Helga but not quite the same. He went the apathy route where high school Helga had gone with all consuming fury. He’d probably resolved to ignore Poppy’s existence while high school Helga would have judged her harshly before they’d even spoken to one another. If Poppy kept pushing Brad, though, she’d find herself on his bad side all too quickly. The excitable girl was getting close to breaking him, judging by the strain evident in his posture; unfortunately for her, _playing with fire_ was something of an understatement when it came to angering Brad.

“Poppy?” Craig called from the other side of the stage, his plastic grin strained at the sight of his girlfriend drowning another boy in so much attention. “We wanted to do a quick run through of Act III, Scene I? Would you mind joining us?”

“Oh!” The redhead jumped to her feet with a bright smile, “sure.” She glanced at the quiet teen on the ground before making her way across the stage. Helga moved to take the girl’s place at Brad’s side.

“Looks like you’ve really caught her attention,” the blonde noted. “Have fun with _that_.” She had already gone through Poppy's rigorous friendship courting rituals. The girl was _relentless_. Helga could appreciate that.

“I want to die,” Brad declared, ever the dramatic (there was a reason he and Helga got along). “She’ll leave me alone if I’m dead, right?”

The blonde shrugged. “Hard to say. She’s just impulsive enough to follow someone into the afterlife in the name of friendship.” The grouchy pair snorted in unison before turning their attention to the teen’s styrofoam rocks. “You should come over for dinner tonight.”

The swift slicing motion of the pocket knife in the boy’s hand paused for only a moment before continuing. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely, you’re a better cook than Arnold and I put together. Without you, we’d starve,” the blonde replied.

“You’ve only known me for a month. What did you do during the B.B. years?”

“Please don’t tell me B.B. stands for-”

“Before Brad Years,” the boy responded with a grin.

Groaning, the blonde woman flopped onto the ground. “Why do I keep you around, again?”

“Because you probably made the exact same joke when you were my age,” Brad shot back.

“No comment.” The pair paused before chuckling lowly.

~~~~~

Poppy watched as two faces normally constantly marred by frowns broke into twin grins and actually sputtered out laughter. She wanted to be the reason for that.

“Um, Poppy?” The redhead blinked and turned to look at her boyfriend. “It’s your line.”

“Ah! Uh,” she giggled nervously and dragged her attention to her script. “Where are we?”

Benny cleared his throat. “Are you okay, Pops? You’re really,” his eyes drifted to the pair on the far side of the stage whom had gone back to grumbling at one another, “ _distracted_.”

Shrugging, the girl grinned. “Just excited to make a new friend.”

The group all exchanged glances with raised eyebrows before settling on the future prom queen. “You mean _him_?” asked Craig, tilting his head at Brad.

“Girl,” Sharon intoned, “don’t you know?”

“That’s Azuletta,” Cheyenne, Sharon’s twin, continued, “he doesn’t have friends. All he does is get into fights and bully people. You _don’t_ want him for a friend.”

Poppy furrowed her eyebrows and glanced back at the tall teen. Judging by the bruises all over him, she’d think it was more likely _he_ was the one getting bullied. Although, it was possible those were from his supposedly frequent fights. It was just-- something in his eyes told the redhead that wasn’t quite right. He looked more like someone who’d sooner take a punch to protect someone else than throw punches himself. Plus, with the way Mrs. Shortman treated him--

“He’s dangerous, Poppy,” Craig said. “You should probably keep your distance.”

“I don’t know why Mrs. Shortman brought him in,” Smith grumbled.

“Guys,” Poppy murmured, surprised. “Woah. You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions about someone you don’t even know.” The group recoiled a bit, realizing the redhead’s words.

“Shoot,” Benny said with a sigh, running a large hand through his short cut platinum blonde hair. “No, we just became that group of kids in an after school special.”

“I hardly think _Brad Azuletta_ , of all people, is being bullied,” Sharon grumbled.

“You already said he doesn’t have any friends,” Poppy argued.

“Maybe that’s more _him_ , rather than his situation?” She suggested.

“Everyone wants friends,” the redhead replied with a frown.

“I’m taking AP Psych,” Cheyenne chimed in, “and I’ve gotta disagree. There are different types of people, Pops. Not everyone needs or even wants friends. He kinda seems like the type.”

Pouting, the future prom queen leaned against her boyfriend. “Friendship is one of the most important factors of human society. A constitutional, unalienable right.”

“Then prove us wrong,” Benny offered. “Befriend him and you’re right. Don’t and we’re right.” Shrugging, the large teen shifted into a more relaxed pose. “It’s win-win for most of us. Either we’re right or we get a chance to make a new friend.”

“I don’t know about this,” Craig murmured.

“I’ll do it,” Poppy declared. “I was going to do it anyway so yeah.” Her boyfriend sighed and shifted away from her slightly.

“I assume you’ll want information?” Sharon asked.

“Knowledge is half the battle,” Poppy replied with a wink.

“We’ll work our contacts and see what we can find,” Cheyenne spoke.

“See if we can get you an in,” her twin continued.

“I bet his interests include, like, kickboxing and car engines,” Smith said. “Five bucks.

“Hunting,” Benny shot back, “and guns. I raise you ten.”

“20 bucks says he’s into knitting,” Sharon bet with a smirk. The group broke into laughter. “Sure, laugh now but I recognize the placement of the callouses on his fingers.”

“Uh-huh, sure. And when, exactly, did you notice his callouses?” Cheyenne teased.

“Why were you looking?” Smith agreed.

“Duh, obviously because he’s hot. Dangerous, mysterious, and definitely _muscled_. I’m not interested in a conversation but that body? Yes _please_.”

As the group laughed loudly once more, Poppy found her own giggles somewhat forced. _Weird_. Maybe she was just uncomfortable with how objectified her new soon-to-be-friend was. Yeah, that was it.


	4. The Cliche That Happens in Every High School Rom-Com

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CAPULET  
> Welcome, gentlemen! ladies that have their toes  
> Unplagued with corns will have a bout with you.  
> Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all  
> Will now deny to dance? she that makes dainty,  
> She, I'll swear, hath corns; am I come near ye now?  
> Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day  
> That I have worn a visor and could tell  
> A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,  
> Such as would please: 'tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone:  
> You are welcome, gentlemen! come, musicians, play.  
> A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.
> 
> Music plays, and they dance
> 
> More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up,  
> And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.  
> Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.  
> Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet;  
> For you and I are past our dancing days:  
> How long is't now since last yourself and I  
> Were in a mask?
> 
> Second Capulet  
> By'r lady, thirty years.
> 
> CAPULET  
> What, man! 'tis not so much, 'tis not so much:  
> 'Tis since the nuptials of Lucentio,  
> Come pentecost as quickly as it will,  
> Some five and twenty years; and then we mask'd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROMEO  
> [To a Servingman] What lady is that, which doth  
> enrich the hand  
> Of yonder knight?
> 
> Servant  
> I know not, sir.
> 
> ROMEO  
> O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!  
> It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night  
> Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear;  
> Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!  
> So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,  
> As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.  
> The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand,  
> And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.  
> Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight!  
> For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

“Brad Azuletta, sixteen years old,” Sharon declared.

“Six foot three, 168 pounds. _All muscle_ ,” Cheyenne continued.

“Actually consistently good grades, straight As though he's in all lower level classes aside from AP English with Mrs. Shortman, whose class he transferred into after her recommendation.”

“Was in the foster system, nobody is sure if he still is. He doesn't talk about it. He doesn't talk about anything. To anyone. Ever.”

“No known friends or acquaintances. An actual metric ton of enemies.”

“Frequently in fights with a habit of winning them, even when grossly outnumbered. Apparently he's almost never the instigator. Everyone swears he picks fights but no one can recall specific incidents where he starts it.”

“Never eats lunch in the cafeteria. No one is sure where he goes to. We figured he was behind the gym with the potheads because that's where teens like him usually eat, but apparently they've never seen him back there during lunch.”

“Turns out he doesn't spend too much time back there anyway-- which we totally didn't see coming. Every time someone tried to sell him something, ‘cause he looks like the type, he'd just shrug and say he didn't have the cash for it.”

“Which is iffy, because word is he's got a parttime job--”

“Wait,” Poppy interrupted, eyebrows furrowed. “People are dealing pot behind the gym?”

The twins exchanged a glance and slowly raised their eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. _Everyone_ knows.” Sharon replied. “Did you seriously not know?”

“I didn't know anyone in the school smoked pot!” Poppy protested.

The twins burst into laughter. That was until Cheyenne noticed the look on the redhead’s face. “Oh, shit. She's serious.” Elbowing Sharon, the pair quieted. “Poppy… how do you feel about weed?”

“I mean,” her eyebrows furrowed as the teen thought about her opinions on the recreational drug for the first time. She'd never needed to consider something like this before. Poppy had always just assumed that because she didn't do it, didn't even _see_ it, it wasn't happening. It was foolish, she now realized. “I don't,” she began speaking before she'd even truly settled on an opinion, “I don't _like_ it. I think it's a waste of money but it isn't my decision to make for other people. It's their bodies. There are more productive ways to relax. So long as it's no one close to me,” she trailed off at the looks on the twins’ faces.

“Poppy,” Sharon said slowly, “don't freak out but--”

~~~~~

The future prom queen stormed through the school; the student body parted like the red Sea to avoid her vengeance. Few had ever seen the usually bubbly Poppy Kingsley look angry, much less this furious. As she neared the gym a pair of twins followed after her.

“Poppy!” cried out Cheyenne, “calm down! It's not that he didn't tell you on purpose!”

“He probably didn't know you didn't know! He just assumed you knew,” Sharon followed up. “It's nothing to be angry about.”

Bursting out the side door, the redhead quickly made her way around to the back of the gym. She ripped a roar from her throat. 

“CRAIG!”

A head whipped around, a curtain in waves with a _perfect_ ombre dye swishing around the chin. “P-Poppy? A half gone blunt dangled between his lips. She narrowed her eyes at the sight. “Poppy,” he held his hands out in surrender and rose to his feet slowly. “I can explain.”

“We’re talking about this now,” the redhead snarled. Grabbing her boyfriend by the collar of his shirt, she led him away from the small crowd behind the gym and back into the school. Pulling him into an empty classroom, she shut the door behind her and turned on him. Placing his hands on her hips and tilting her head up, Poppy waited expectantly. “Well?”

“Poppy,” Craig began, offering a weak smile. “So, I know you didn’t know, but I promise it isn’t that bad.”

“You’re doing drugs!” the redhead cried out while throwing her arms in the air. “Illegal drugs!”

“You say it like I’m doing… heroine or something. It’s only a little weed.” He responded with furrowed eyebrows.

“Either way it’s drugs! They’re dangerous!” Poppy protested.

“Woah, what?” The baseball player gawked in surprise. “Ah, shit. Poppy, that’s wrong. Studies show that weed does very little harm to the brain and body. Alcohol damages the body more than weed.”

“But,” Poppy stumbled. She really didn’t know anything about the subject, so she couldn’t argue against his point, however she still was just _unsettled_ by the idea of Craig using mind-altering substances. “It’s addictive!”

“Studies also show it isn’t addictive, babe,” Craig said softly, walking towards her. “You’re more likely to get addicted to prescribed pain killers than you are weed.” He gently took her shoulders into his hands. “Poppy, I know it’s weird and a little scary because so many people have told you otherwise, but weed isn’t scary or dangerous.” He pulled her into a hug as her eyebrows furrowed, mulling over the new information provided.

“Why do you use it?” Poppy asked quietly.

“It enhances my meditation sessions and chill. It makes me feel happy, Poppy.” He gasped lightly and leaned back to look her in the eye. “You should try it! I bet you’d really enjoy it.”

“I,” the redhead chewed her bottom lip, “I don’t know.”

“Trust me,” the boy cooed, rubbing his hands against her forearms. “It’ll feel nice. Come to my place after school today and try it. Just so you know how safe it is.” Smiling at her, her stepped away. “Five minutes till classes start. I’ve gotta go. See you soon, babe!”

After he left the room, Poppy stood alone. Her nose crinkled as she realized the air around her now smelled… _funny_. A little stale maybe, somewhat heedy. Definitely not pleasant. Sighing, the redhead rubbed her arms. She wasn’t sure what to do. The girl started to walk to her next class when it her where she was going.

AP English.

She was walking to her class with Brad. The thought of making a new friend excited her enough to distract her from the uncomfortable thoughts regarding her boyfriend.

~~~~~

Brad groaned when a certain strawberry blonde primly plopped into the seat next to him. Looking out the window to avoid her attempts at making eye contact, the teen desperately wished for a mis-thrown ball to smash through the window and nail him in the head, effectively knocking him out. When he heard the door open and the heavy footfalls of a familiar teacher, he spun around to nail the blonde teacher with a despondent, pleaful gaze. _Do something about this, please_.

Mrs. Shortman carefully observed the situation before sending him a reassuring smile. Wait- _no_. He knew that smile. She was going to-

“Today we’ll be working in pairs,” she announced with a dastardly grin.

“Wanna be partners?” Poppy asked immediately, annoyingly bright smile directed at him.

Raising his hand, Brad refused to look at the girl at his side and waited for Mrs. Shortman to nod at him. “Can I work alone?” Everyone in the classroom was looking at him now. Which was fine. It’d be better for his loner reputation.

“I was going to have pairs read lines from Romeo and Juliet together,” she teased, “because I love making you all uncomfortable. Can’t really do that alone. Can you?”

Brad opened his mouth to argue that _yes, he totally could read the lines alone and he’d do it in front of everyone and look like a crazy person doing it_ when Poppy spoke up. “I’ll be his partner, Mrs. Shortman.”

The blonde laughed victoriously. “Thank you, Kingsley.” Her blue eyes shifted to Brad. “There you go, Brad. Nothing to worry about.” Brad audibly groaned. “Get into pairs. I’ll be coming around to assign you a scene. After you’ve run through it, dissect it together and then write me a page and a half fine-tuning and presenting the ideas you discussed.”

“So,” Poppy began, wide smile and eyes directed at her partner. “You a fan of Romeo and Juliet?”

Brad snorted. “Yeah, sure,” he spoke sarcastically, “I also enjoy Nickelback, starbucks for every meal, and wearing yoga pants despite having never been to a yoga class in my life.”

The redhead blinked in surprise. “I’m a fan of Starbucks, but _every_ meal?”

The boy stared at her with dead eyes. “I really don’t think we’re going to get along.”

“What?!” the popular girl reeled at the sudden declaration. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m a realist,” Brad answered flatly.

“Team realist,” Mrs. Shortman greeted the pair as she came to a stop next to them. “Scene V. Start from Capulet’s _Welcome Gentlemen_.”

“Can I be Romeo?” Poppy asked excitedly.

The other shrugged. “I’ll be Capulet.” They both pulled out their books and turned to the proper page. Brad cleared his throat before beginning the monologue. The redhead watched the teen carefully as he read. His blue eyes lazily gazed down at the page. Actually- _hold on_ , his eyes weren’t moving. They weren’t tracing the lines of words at all. Tuning her ears back into the monologue, the girl found where he was in her book. He was on the next page! Surprised, she looked up at the teen. _He had Romeo and Juliet memorised_. A grin split Poppy’s face while excitement and curiosity burst inside her chest like fireworks. She _really_ wanted to be this interesting person’s friend.

“Your line,” Brad called out to her, disinterest evident in his tone.

The redhead giggled and adopted a ridiculous accent, throwing herself into the role and just enjoying herself for a bit. She wondered if Brad liked cupcakes. She should bring cupcakes. They finished the scene and started aa light discussion in accordance with the assignment.

“I like how poetic Romeo’s first encounter with Juliet is,” Poppy declared.

“Literally the entire play is _poetic_. It was written in iambic pentameter. It is poetry. Anyway, this play reflects the folly of youth and the idealistic, blind nature of romance,” Brad countered not looking up from the notes he was scribbling on a piece of paper.

“It was love at first sight,” the future prom queen protested.

“He didn’t know anything about her other than what she looked like. Is that all it takes to fall in love? Appearance? Not to mention he got himself killed over it. Same goes for Juliet. They were both idiots, too infatuated with appearance to remember the importance of self preservation,” Brad shot back, finally looking up to glare at the redhead.

“But they were star-crossed! It was fate,” Poppy responded with furrowed eyebrows, “they were meant for each other.”

“Star-crossed means that the fates were working against them. They were doomed. It wasn’t going to be a good relationship regardless of whether you believe in destiny or not- It was purely aesthetic. Each thought the other was hot and got caught up in a dumb scheme fueled by their hormones.”

“But,” Poppy mumbled, eyes widening as she found no evidence to the contrary.

“Alas, they were just children,” Mrs. Shortman suddenly spoke from behind the future prom queen. The redhead gasped and whirled around. The blonde teacher had a proud smirk on her face and her eyes on Brad. “They were young and dumb, but they wouldn’t have done anything if it weren’t for that damn friar. It was the adult who led them astray. They just needed the right guidance and they would’ve lived to adulthood.”

“Not everyone gets the _guidance_ of a responsible guardian,” the boy spoke darkly.

Poppy watched in surprise as Mrs. Shortman adopted a sad smile. “No, you’re definitely right.” She reached over and roughly tousled Brad’s dark hair. “But some of us get lucky.”

The bell signifying the end of the class rang. As Poppy collected her things and left her paper on Mrs. Shortman’s desk, she watched the blonde and Brad whisper conspiratorially and nudge one another with their elbows. Exiting the room, she remembered what awaited her after school.

_Oh._ No one noticed the slight hunch to her shoulders.


	5. Marijuana, Gaslighting, and Poetry! Oh My!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She tried to say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Update (circa 12/14/2017): here's an illustration of the happy part of the chapter I made while dying during a completely different set of finals than the ones I mention below. Yeah, I update slow.*
> 
> Wasn't going to update this week because I've got finals but I got multiple reviews asking for an update and I already had the chapter written (it just wasn't typed up yet), so I figured what the hell. I needed a break from the studying anyway.
> 
> I felt so gross writing the gaslighting dialogue. Just... always be careful about the types of relationships you're in, okay, folks?
> 
> Anyway, this is when I start going in pretty heavy with the discussion on recreational drugs. I'm probably going to update the tags to reflect this. So, real talk guys, this is going to delve into the morality of recreational drug use, specifically that of marijuana. It is one hell of a nuanced discussion and a lot of people are very passionate about it. There are going to be characters with conflicting views on the subject and they're probably going to get into fights. Now, I have my opinions on the subject but I'm not going to try and push any particular agenda nor will I clarify where I stand unless you guys really want me to. If this subject makes you uncomfortable, if the way the characters handle the situations I put them in makes you uncomfortable, I'm sorry. I don't know why I felt compelled to write a fanfic for a children's movie exploring, among other things, the incredibly controversial topic of recreational drug use, but I'm committed to it.
> 
> Don't get me wrong, this is still going to be all kinds of awkward cheesy teenage human Broppy, but also I like ruining things. You're basically reading High School Musical but based on a movie made to sell a fad from the 80s to a new generation with an extra dash of philosophical discussion regarding substance abuse.

Poppy sat in Craig’s room. She’d been in there countless times before for study groups, hang out sessions, and dates. Watching as he pulled one of the few books he had off his shelf and opening it to reveal a bog of plant life resting in its hollowed out insides, the redhead wondered what would’ve happened if she’d decided to try and read it during the many number of times she’d been there before. How would she have reacted? Biting furiously at the inside of her cheek, the girl tried to look everywhere but her boyfriend.

Her rib cage felt like it was shrinking, her ears were ringing, her eyes were watering-- God, why was it so hard to breathe? Poppy swallowed back a stuttering breath and tried to blink away her rising tears. Craig’s face filled her vision. His mouth moved, shaping words she couldn’t quite hear before it formed a wide smile. She could feel something pressed into her hand and her fingers reflexively closed around it. After a moment she watched as Craig laid a joint between his lips ad lit fire to it. The smell from earlier assaulted her nostrils and Poppy ground her teeth. This felt wrong.

A gentle touch pulled apart her fingers to rearrange the cylinder in her palm before guiding it up to her mouth. Bile bubbled in her throat as the lighter was tipped towards her, igniting her joint. 

Ripping it away from her mouth, she looked at Craig. “I’m just,” the redhead struggled to find the right words. “I’m not comfortable with this, Craig.”

Craig withdrew from her slightly, his eyes full of hurt. “Poppy, I know this is unfamiliar to you but it’s a very important part of my lifestyle.” Pouting, he gestured to the joint in his mouth. “If you really cared about me, the way you say you do, you would try this out for me.” Poppy bit her lip and glanced down at the smoking cylinder between her fingers. “Shared interests are important, yea? Think of how much closer we’ll be once we have this in common.” He gently took her free hand in his. “Do it for me, babe.”

Nervously, she put the joint to her lips and pulled a breath in.

~~~~~

“I’m not saying Dickinson isn’t a good poet,” Brad huffed as he repeatedly slammed the knife against the cutting board. “Just that Emerson accomplishes more because he writes more.” With the onion finely diced, he used the blade to push the tiny cubes aside and set the next vegetable in the center of the cutting board.

“Brevity is the soul of wit,” Helga declared as she scooped the diced onion into a bowl to carry across the kitchen. “Why waste a hundred words communicating what can be said in five? Dickinson got that.”

“Dickinson doesn’t say anything though. Nothing is long enough to clearly establish an idea worth expressing,” the teen argued.

A wince came from the doorway. “Insulting Dickinson to Helga’s face? I’m not sure you’re going to live to see tomorrow.” Walking into the kitchen, a blonde man gently ruffled Brad’s dark hair. “Want me to write your eulogy? I’m not the writer in this family but I’d be nicer than the professional plotting your death.”

“Nah, I’d rather have an honest eulogy,” Brad said, setting down the knife and taking the last of the diced vegetables to the frying pan heating up on the stove. “She might be my murderer but at least she’d be honest.”

“There’s a good idea for a short story,” Helga murmured, “a eulogy of a murder victim delivered by the perpetrator.”

“My only request is no Dickinson quotes,” the boy teased as he slowly poured the vegetables in with the ground meat which had been simmering.

“It’s only going to be Dickinson quotes,” the blonde woman declared, cackling joyously.

“You married a cartoon super villain,” Brad told the man standing next to him.

“I know,” he grinned widely, “aren’t I lucky?”

The teen gave the blondes a withering state. “Whatever you say, Arnold.”

For a moment the married couple quickly exchanged a glance and grew a pair of matching grins. “That’s right,” Arnold said with a mocking tone, his eyes on his wife. “Whatever _I_ say.” Brad’s eyebrows furrowed at the snickering adults. They made _no sense_.

“Anyway, while you two finish up the grub, I’m going to go find some berets, scarves, and dark colored jackets,” Helga declared. Arnold had known his wide long enough to know that asking would simply be wasting time. He’d find out what she was planning soon enough.

“We’ve been working on some poetry,” Brad spoke, his eyes focused on the food in front of him. “She thinks we’ll know if any of my stuff is worth submitting to the competition by listening to me perform it at an impromptu poetry slam.”

“Which obviously requires berets, scarves, and dark colored jackets,” Arnold continued, amusement laced in his tone.

“Obviously,” the teen agreed as he worked the vegetables around the frying pan in a frantic dance to the sizzling. Living on his own for as long as he did, the boy had picked up quite a bit of cooking know-how. He genuinely was not sure how Helga and Arnold had survived as long as they did with their abysmal skills in the kitchen. It wasn’t long before the three sat around a small wooden table, donned in dark sweaters, scarves, and berets, and tucked into the vegetable stir fry the teen had prepared.

Helga, sporting a black turtleneck sweater with half sleeves, a music note covered infinity scarf she _borrowed_ from the school’s lost and found, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses with the lenses popped out, and a maroon beret tipped ridiculously far to the left of her head, gestured rather aggressively with her fork in the air and her mouth full of food. Her bright blue irises flickered back and forth between her student and her husband as she engaged in a single player game of charades.

“I have no idea what she is trying to say,” Brad declared to Arnold. The teen wore a high collared, dark trench coat with a slytherin scarf wrapped securely around his neck. His dark hair was stuffed into a slouching beanie with the name of a university he didn’t recognize monogrammed onto the brim.

“Uh,” the blonde man squinted at his wife. “Something about… skateboarding?” By the time Helga had gotten around to putting together Arnold’s impromptu poetry slam outfit, she might’ve gotten a little lazy. That was why he was wearing a thick christmas sweater, his hufflepuff scarf, and a top hat.

His wife swallowed her mouthful of food and slammed her fist on the table. “I want dinner and a show! C’mon, kiddo! Just one piece before we all settle down for food.”

“Oh,” Brad adjusted the scarf around his neck. “Uh, sure. Should I stand or-”

Helga snapped before waving at the coffee table in the adjoining living room. “Use the coffee table as a stage.”

Brad stared at the flimsy wood structure. “I’m going to crush it beneath my weight.”

“Please,” the blonde woman scoffed, “I’ve stood on that table plenty of times. It’ll be fine.”

“Even if it breaks, it’ll be an easy fix,” Arnold pointed out after swallowing a spoonful of vegetable stir fry.

Sighing, the student made his way to the living room and mounted the table. It wobbled under his weight but managed to hold him. Brad was oddly proud of the struggling table. The married couple joyfully snapped for his presence. Clearing his throat, the teen made eye contact with the two adults. “Uh, this is a work in progress. I call it _Bricks_.”

“ _Rough, sharp edges worn down by the passage of time box me in_  
like the blood red back walls that line the streets  
I wander down,  
tracing my calloused fingers on those sandpaper faces,  
dipping in and out of caulk lines;  
Jostled by the imperfections, I pull back and I see-”

The three were silent, the quiet hanging in the air between them. “That’s really as far as I’ve got so far.”

Helga and Arnold snapped loudly as the boy once again claimed his seat at the table. Humming, the woman leaned towards the teen to ruffled his dark hair. “I’ll give you some pro-tips after dinner. Now, let’s eat!”

~~~~~~

Poppy tried to take in her bleary surroundings. Everything was a weird shade of almost coral-- _oh wait_. Pushing her hair out of her face, the future prom queen glanced around once more. She could see now but it was all around once more. She could see now but it was all still confusing. Craig had taken her… _somewhere_. She couldn’t remember what he called this place or who these people were. He’d introduced her to a litany of blurry faces and garbled names when they first arrived. Honestly, the girl just felt nauseous. 

She didn’t want to be here. Wherever here was. Everything felt so far away, like her head was inside another head and her eyes were looking out another pair of eyes and her mouth was puppeteering another mouth. The redhead just wanted to pull this other head off. And then maybe barf a little. Just a little.

A sudden hug startled the teen, sluggishly dragging her gaze to confront the pressure on her side. Craig was partially leaning on her, long arm draped loosely over her shoulders and hooked around her throat. He buried his face into the base of her neck, nose smushing uncomfortably against her itching skin. The readhead’s lungs were too small again.

“ _Pooooooooooppy_ ,” he moaned. The last baseball player raised his free arm to gesture somewhere towards something the girl couldn’t see. “You’ve gotta meet this guy.” A fuzzy image of a man stepped into her view. _Was it just Poppy or did gravity shift to the right a little?_ “He’s the guy,” Craig paused to do a quick check that he still had all the parts of his face, “he’s the guy who farms the mary jane.”

A distorted voice responded but Poppy felt too far away to hear anything. It felt a little like her soul was lifting out of her body. Her arm was being tugged and the redhead blinked in surprise. It was Craig, trying to pull her into another room.

“Craig?” Her voice sounded funny.

“C’mon, babe. Let’s go meditate,” the teen coaxed. Poppy blinked and she was in a different room, sitting on the floor with her boyfriend who had his head tilted up to the ceiling. Poppy had never been good at meditating. Her head was too busy. Why sit around when she could be compiling a scrapbook of a volunteer experience or organize a party? However, now, her queasy stomach delighted at the idea of sitting down and doing nothing.

A blunt appeared in front of Poppy’s face, held in an unfamiliar hand. She started to shake her head no, her tongue swelling with nausea. “Uh, _no_...” she murmured.

“Yea, thanks,” Craig said louder, his voice overpowering her own. He reached out and accepted the joint, putting it to his lips and sucking in smoke. He puffed out a little cloud before handing the blunt to his girlfriend. “Go ahead,” he said. Poppy accepted the weed with shaking hands and slowly pulled the smoke into her lungs. “I’m glad we could do this together, Poppy. We should do this a lot.”

Her lungs burned. She coughed loudly and her eyes watered.

~~~~~~


	6. Without Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.  
> Without music, life would be a mistake.  
> There are no facts, only interpretations.  
> The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently.  
> There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.  
> To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.  
> We love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay but guys you know what I fear the most when working on this fic? It isn’t that I might screw up someone’s characterization or that the controversial topics will piss off my readers and no one will want to come back. The thing I’m most scared of is misspelling “Poppy” as “Poopy”. Because I’m secretly (or maybe not so secretly judging by the amount of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle paraphernalia I own) an 8 year old boy who still laughs at “Poopy” like it is the highest form of wit to grace our pitiful species.
> 
> I freaking dare you to guess who my favorite philosopher is.

Craig had been taking her to more places like the first one. Unfamiliar and claustrophobic, each one was different. She had yet to grow used to the constant smell haunting each of these places. At first her boyfriend had stuck at her side in each of these new venues but as time wore on he drifted farther and farther from her side. Sometimes the redhead would lose sight of him for hours.

It’d been a while since Poppy had seen her boyfriend. He’d patted her shoulder at the entrance, told her he’d _be right back_ , and walked through another doorway. In the haze of her high, she hadn’t been able to keep track of time, but it felt like hours passed. Strangers continued to pass her joints and the girl couldn’t find the fight in herself to say no. Everything blurred. At some point the whole group of unfamiliar faces had been herded outside, Poppy included. People stumbled away in every direction and the redhead blinked in confusion. She thought she spotted a swish of hair that looked like Craig so she shambled after the person.

Only suddenly she was standing in front of a glowing 7/11, staring at a bright blue slushie machine through the window. _Where was she?_ She blinked. _Where was Craig?_ Her forehead thunked against the glass pane and she let out a long groan. Poppy was so tired. Maybe she could just curl up for a little nap under the warmth of the bright gas station sign.

The little chime of 7/11’s doors echoed loud in her cranium, sounding almost like a choir of voices announcing the arrival of something great. A crack of bright light split the metal bar between two glass panes and golden fluorescence spilled out onto Poppy and the motley concrete ground beneath her. The slow drawing apart of the doors was like a dramatic parting of curtains and the redhead braced herself to applaud, feeling as though the hero was about to arrive on the scene to a crescendo of brass, woodwind, and strings. The dark silhouette of a tall figure backlit by freezers packed with poison stood resplendent before her. Poppy drew her hands up waited for the hero to deliver their line so she could applaud.

“Kingsley?” Now-- _wait. That couldn’t be right._

The figure stepped forward and light hit their face and-- _oh_. “Hello, Mrs. Shortman,” Poppy giggled awkwardly, finding words strange on her tongue.

“What the hell are you doing here, kid?” the teacher asked. Poppy wasn’t exactly sure how she responded; if she said anything at all, but she was being pulled along somewhere-- by both Mrs. Shortman and this _universal flow_ she’d never been so aware of before. Before the redhead even realized it, she was being pushed through the door of a small house. When did she get here?

“Helga,” a voice called from inside. It sounded really familiar. Poppy felt her heartbeat pick up at the sound-- why? “Please explain to your husband how influential Robert Burns was. He seems to think the thick scottish accent needed for reading his works is a laughing matter.”

“Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie!” Mrs. Shortman declared loudly as she maneuvered her student to the couch. Poppy squinted as two blurry figures appeared in the doorway.

“Is that--?” The first voice asked. It seemed to be coming from the taller figure.

“Yeah. Found her in front of a 7/11. She’ll probably be fine. Just needs a safe place to come down from her high.” The blonde turned away from her to talk to the two strangers. “You’re against slavery, aren’t you, Arnold? Guess whose poetry Abraham Lincoln was looking to for guidance during the civil war, when he was writing the emancipation proclamation.”

There was an awkward chuckle as Poppy’s eyes slipped shut. Just a little nap. “It just reminds me so much of your _making fun of Brave_ voice.”

A startled laugh proceeded words soaked in a thick Scottish accent. “If ye could change yer fate, wud ye?”

Poppy didn’t feel like she’d slept at all when a warm smell wafted up to her face and into her nostrils. She felt incredibly nauseous but whatever she was smelling would be worth eating. Peeling her eyes open, the redhead wasn’t sure what she was. A soft, old couch that smelled like home cooking and ancient books was under her and the room around her was the picture of cosey, eclectic, and just damn interesting.

Knick knacks and rainbows of books covered the numerous shelves lining the walls. It almost looked like what she imagined Indiana Jones’ living room would be. A few masks and weapons hung from the walls and her limited experience with history classes told her they were something vaguely Latin American; Incan maybe? She finally isolated the origin of that smell.

A bowl sat on the coffee table in front of the couch she was lying on. Steam wafted up from its rim gently, carrying with it that mouth watering aroma. She reached out with a shaking hand to rim her fingers along its ceramic sides. Warmth seeped from the bowl into her fingertips-- warmth like a hug after you done playing outside in the rain. Her other hand groped along the table’s surface for a utensil of some kind. A noise startled her, causing her to jolt into a sitting position. Poppy could now see inside the bowl but that wasn’t what had her attention.

“Oh,” said Brad, “you’re up.” Poppy felt even more lost and confused now that the object of her friendship mission was awkwardly standing in the doorway of a random room she woke up in while holding-- _is that a lyre?_ “Hold on, I’ll go get Hel--” he paused uncomfortably, “Mrs. Shortman.” He left the room just as quickly as he’d appeared and Poppy was left spiralling.

_Where is she? How’d she get here? Why is Brad here? Where is Craig? Why did she let herself get pulled into this? Why didn’t she say **no**?_

“Kingsley!” A loud and familiar voice called from beyond the door moments before a certain blonde English teacher burst into the room. “Looks like you’re up. Time for us to have a chat.” With that, the woman plopped into an arm chair facing the couch. “So,” she folded her hands in her lap and stared down her student. “You smoke weed, huh?”

Poppy couldn’t help the tears that welled in her eyes. She didn’t know if the scathing judgment had actually been in her teacher’s tone or if it was all in her own head, but, either way, she felt awful. Her breath hitched as she tried to speak and her words come out squeaky and stuttered. “I- I don’t- I never wanted to- I tried to say no! She pushed tears away from her eyes and sucked in a deep breath, the air getting caught in her throat wrenching an awkward sob from her. “I tried to say no!” she exclaimed again. “I- said no! I’m so sorry!” Her entire body shuddered with sobs.

Helga blinked in surprise as her student broke down crying in front of her. “Criminy,” she muttered. “Uh, Arnold? Can you get in here?” The blonde tried to keep the edge of panic out of her voice. She’d never been very good with other people crying around her. “I need your help with something!”

“Helga? Her husband walked in and, upon seeing the sobbing Poppy, immediately rushed to her side and enveloped her in a hug. “Hi Poppy. Long time no see. It’s Arnold. Do you want to talk about why you’re crying?” Helga smiled as the high schooler gradually calmed down in her husband’s hug. She loved how emotionally competent and secure he was.

Poppy rubbed messily at the wetness around her eyes before clearing her throat. “I, uh, I smoked weed-- multiple times, but I-- I didn’t want to. He told me I had to like I wasn’t being a good girlfriend if I didn’t. Like not trying weed means I was turning my back on him.” Her arms circled around herself and she dug her fingernails into her skin. “I did it but I hate it so much. It’s awful.”

The married couple exchanged a glance. “Poppy,” Helga said softly, surprising the girl with the use of her given name. “When you’re feeling better let’s have a talk about that but for now we should focus on getting you back to your bubbly self.” The redhead nodded and offered a small smile. “Now eat your soup. My personal chef made it.”

Pulling away, the adults gave Poppy some space to breath and so she could try the food in the still steaming bowl. After a nod of reassurance from the teen the two left the room. It was quiet and Poppy was relaxing and sipping at the warm, delicious soup. It was like a liquified hug, being embraced by a friend from inside her chest. It felt really, really nice.  
“If ye were gods, ye’d be ashamed of clothing!” She heard Mrs. Shortman bellow loudly from another room. She giggled at the antics of the blonde woman.

“You have your way and I have my way, but as for the right way, the correct way, and the only way-- it does not exist!” Another voice responded. Actually-- _wait_. Poppy jolted in surprise as she remembered the first person she’d seen after waking up.

_**Brad.** _

~~~~~

Poppy had actually backed off Brad for a few weeks. It’d been a pleasant reprieve and the boy was glad for it. Something else was obviously occupying the girl-- kind of tearing her apart at the seams, but it wasn’t his place to intervene. She might mistake it for him accepting her as a friend.

So he wasn’t really sure how to react when Helga had dragged the golden girl through the door high off her ass, tossed her on the couch, and then demanded an extra helping of dinner for the redhead. Clearly whatever had been going on with her had come to a head. Poppy was in a shitty place right now and, while Brad was an asshole, he wasn’t _that much_ of an asshole. He whipped up some savoury soup, a true comfort food that would go easy on the girl, and set it on the coffee table by the couch for when she woke up.

After that, Helga had demanded they go in search of the perfect musical accompaniment to his voice in slam poetry. An hour or so passed with a parade of odd instruments spinning tunes that that he got to riff to. He largely forgot that the most popular girl in school was passed out on the couch. It was when he was carrying a lyre through the living room and saw her caressing the bowl of soup as though she were about to burst into a Shakespearean sonnet that he remembered she was there at all. He’d quickly called upon Helga to handle the awakened girl and then fled to the kitchen, hoping to stay largely out of the way. At one point in time Helga had bellowed Arnold’s name for some reason.

Brad tried not to think about what was happening in the other room. Whatever Poppy was going through was personifying, transforming her from _the Poppy Kingsley_ into Poppy, just a girl with problems like everyone else. It was incredibly easy to avoid and ignore _the Poppy Kingsley_ , impossibly popular and delightful, because she didn’t _need_ Brad. He was just a passing fancy whom she would forget all about soon enough. However, this girl underneath the smiling and glittering exterior obviously needed all the help she could get from anyone who would offer. Brad did not want to that to be obvious. He never wanted to get to know her-- otherwise he’d be dragged into her life and obligated to care. Brad did not want to be a part of someone else’s life, to live their drama with them. He prefered to live his own life alone, deal with his own problems alone. He didn’t want anything to do with anyone else.

(Except for Helga and Arnold, both of whom he hadn’t wanted anything to do with at first either, and now he couldn’t imagine life without them. Well, he could. It just really fucking sucked. He’s written poetry about them but he hasn’t shared it-- he’s not that emotionally secure. He supposed Poppy could be another case like Helga and Arnold-- however the couple were the kind of people you meet once in a lifetime. So Brad was skeptical.)

Eventually Helga and Arnold joined him in the kitchen. The woman demanded dessert and that somehow built up into a Nietzsche quote competition.

“You have your way and I have my way, but as for the right way, the correct way, and the only way-- it does not exist!” Brad declared loudly after mounting a stool.

Helga cackled and clapped. Arnold scrolled through Nietzsche quotes on his phone and gave a thumbs up to verify Brad’s quote. Poppy poked her head in the doorway and locked eyes with Brad.

Brad fell off the stool.


	7. The Horrible Betrayal of the Traitorous Ankle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Brad fell off the stool_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I knew how to update faster but I don't think I'm physically capable??

Brad hit the ground with the grace of a cat-- if that cat had been high on catnip and rolled backwards off the coffee table on accident and was about 15 pounds heavier than it needed to be to twist properly. Which is to stay that Brad did not stick the landing.

Helga, obviously, found it hilarious. From where he was lying on the ground, it looked like there were tears in her eyes from how hard she was laughing. Arnold was already under the sink for a first aid kit and Poppy had squeaked in surprise at the teen’s sudden tumble. The redhead stood in the doorway, clearly torn between entering to check on his health and feeling like she was intruding on some kind of moment.

Maybe it was the way his ankle was screeching at him for landing on it funny, but something caused Brad to forget he was supposed to be a jerk to her long enough for him to nod to her softly, granting her entry to the room. In moments she had shot past Helga to kneel beside Brad and check on his ankle. _His own ankle had colluded against him, he was sure of it._ Her dainty fingers pressed into the tendons and bones around the traitorous joint and Brad abruptly realized medical examinations were really weird. It was like he was being felt up by someone with a foot fetish.

Helga snorted loudly and Poppy’s face colored brightly. _Woops. Apparently, he’d said that aloud_.

Poppy coughed awkwardly and pulled her hands back. “Um,” Brad had never seen the talkative girl at a loss for words before and slowly rose an eyebrow. “Everything looks fine. I couldn’t feel any breaks or displacement and swelling seems minimal. You should probably ice it just in case, but you’ll be fine.” Her eyes were darting everywhere but Brad and he momentarily considered an alternate tactic to discouraging Poppy’s attempts at friendship. Apparently innuendo was not her thing. Unfortunately it wasn’t Brad’s thing either and he doubted he could keep it up long enough to scare her away for good.

Arnold glanced at the roll of bandages he’d already pulled out and sighed. “We never get a chance to use the first aid kit.”

“Probably a good thing,” Brad noted.

“I say we bandage him anyway-- in the name of theatrics!” Helga exclaimed excitedly.

“Not a wise use of a first aid kit but I’m down,” Brad intoned. The teen was quickly caught up in the energetic aura of the couple, forgetting they had an audience. Things escalated quickly. He was already writhing on the ground, telling Lieutenant Andersmith to tell his family he loved them in a thick, awful cockney accent and clutching at an imaginary wound in his chest, when soft giggling caught his attention. Freezing in place, the boy sat up and swivelled around to notice Poppy had taken up residence on a stool beside Helga.

“Soldier,” she intoned playfully as they made eye contact.

“If you try to tell anyone about this, I will have you killed,” he responded immediately.

Poppy blinked in surprise before glancing at the blonde woman sitting right next to her. “You realize you’re threatening me in front of our teacher, right?”

“Well, obviously,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “She’s who I’m going to get a hitman’s reference from.” Turning to Helga, he nodded in her direction. “I assume you have the contact information of at least a few contract killers.”

Helga sighed dramatically. “No use kid, she’d just befriend whoever we sent after her. They’d probably sing a song together and everything.”

He flopped onto the ground with equal dramatic flair. “Curses. Foiled again.” He shrugged absently. “No one will believe her. My reputation is probably intact.”

“Your reputation is awful,” Poppy blurted out before she could stop herself. “Everyone is scared of you!”

Brad smiled wide and it struck the redhead as entirely genuine. Her heart did something funny and she frowned. “Exactly!”

“The social isolation is all well and good,” Helga chimed in, “but you almost got kicked out because of that reputation.”

“Not my fault the principal buys into bullshit rumors,” Brad shot back. It almost looked like he was pouting and Poppy’s stomach did something alongside her heart this time.  
_Wait._

“You almost got _expelled_?!” Poppy shrieked.

Cringing, Brad scooted away from her and hid behind Arnold. “Do you know what _inside voice_ means?”

“What were you going to be expelled for?” Poppy asked frantically. He might not be her friend (yet) but she still didn’t want friends getting hurt.

Brad’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not entirely sure what his plan was, actually. He tried to throw a lot of bullshit at me but none of it was viable.” He shrugged. “Something about fighting, even though it’s all self defense. Then something about class participation, which is bull because I’m passing all my classes. After that was attitude but that was when we were getting into thoughtcrime territory and my knight in shining armor swooped in to save the day.”

“And the damsel in distress has been paying me back ever since by cooking for Arnoldo and I,” Helga intoned. Brad blinked in surprise when he realized how much he’d just shared with Poppy, how close he let her get. _Damn_. Helga and Arnold were making him drop his guard way too much. He needed to get the conversation off of himself.

“Since you’re up, I’m going to go stand in another room and not be in hearing distance of whatever you three need to talk about,” Brad declared abruptly, vaulting to his feet. Three long strides and he was out of the kitchen. _Smooth as butter_.

Helga turned to face Poppy expectantly. “So,” she said with a twist of dry humor laced into her tone, “let’s talk about weed.”

Right as Poppy began to cringe, Arnold lifted an egg he’d pulled from the fridge during Brad’s _super smooth_ exit. “This is your brain,” he said, voice stuck somewhere between incredibly serious, a Pee Wee Herman impression, and being seconds away from bursting into laughter. He stepped forwards and immediately tripped over his own feet. While he managed to right himself without face planting on the floor, the egg was lost in the process. Arnold watched, shocked, as the egg crashed to the ground with a wet smack, splattering its gooey innards over the kitchen tile. In that moment his jellybean green eyes made contact with Poppy’s. “This is your brain on drugs,” he murmured in a deathly somber tone.

Helga burst into laughter. “Well done, doofus. Now please clean this up.”

“Whatever you say, Helga,” the blonde man responded with a soft smile.

With that, his wife turned to the redhead on the stool beside her. “So, tell me everything that you’re comfortable sharing with me.”

Fiddling with her fingers, the redhead bit her lip. Slowly, she began recounting the way she’d been dragged into trying weed, how she’d be a terrible girlfriend if she didn’t support Craig in this, how she was accused of being close-minded and judgemental every time she tried to turn down a blunt.

“It makes me feel sick to my stomach,” Poppy mumbled downcast, “every time someone puts a blunt in my fingers.”

Helga nodded slowly, shooting glances to Arnold every now and then. “Alright, do you want to hear my opinion on the matter?” Poppy nodded enthusiastically. _Maybe if she said a teacher told her to stop with the weed, then Craig would--_

“The problem isn’t the weed,” Helga immediately declared. The redhead flinched in surprise. “It’s the people you’re hanging out with.” Seeing the lost look on Poppy’s face, the author sighed. “It’s one thing when you choose to smoke weed yourself. Your body, your decisions. So long as you do it recreationally and you haven’t developed a dependence, it’s all good. However, when someone else forces you--”

“Uhm,” the redhead interrupted, her eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean develop a dependence? Craig said weed isn’t addictive.”

“Ah, _that_ ,” Helga hummed. “Yeah, so marijuana isn’t nearly as addictive as substances like alcohol or nicotine, but it is still, without a doubt, addictive. A lot of people think that it is either not at all or barely addictive, but that isn’t true. Millions of people suffer from marijuana abuse disorders every year. What matters isn’t the substance but how you use it. It is possible to maintain healthy, recreational use of marijuana or even the more extreme substances like heroin, believe it or not, although healthy regulation is far rarer in cases regarding substances like heroin. It’s when you stop doing it just for fun or relaxation, when you start _needing_ it, that it becomes a problem.”

“So,” Poppy said slowly, “marijuana can be addictive depending on how a person uses it?”

“More or less,” Helga nodded. “I mean, Arnoldo enjoys a blunt every now and then and he’s not addicted. It’s purely recreational.”

“Mr. Shortman?!” Poppy asked in surprise, her head flipping around to stare at the man with wide eyes. He chuckled in response. He was so unlike everyone else she had encountered in the weird places Craig dragged her.

“It helps a lot with relaxation,” Arnold said simply.

“Whereas I’m just not interested in any substances. Too much history of abuse in the family, ya know? I’m just not interested because I've seen where it can take you. Same as the kid hiding in the living room. Arnoldo and I respect each other’s standpoints on the matter because it’s always your own choice what you put in your body,” Helga said seriously.

“And that’s where your problem lies,” Arnold followed up as he settled next to his wife. “It wasn’t your decision to do try marijuana nor has it been your decision to continue at the rate you have.” 

“Frankly, kid,” Helga intoned, “that sounds like a hell of an unhealthy relationship the way he’s pressuring you into that. And trust me, I know unhealthy relationships.”

“We don’t want to tell you what to do with your life, because that’s exactly the problem you’re coping with right now, however I would take a serious and long look at the type of relationship you have with your boyfriend,” Arnold said seriously.

Poppy nodded slowly, her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to digest all the new information.

“With that said,” Helga announced with a large grin, “I’m sick of this somber ass mood. Hey kid,” she waited for Poppy to make eye contact with her. “Want to hear some poetry?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has more information on drug use and abuse that they'd like to share to inform the discussion that Helga, Arnold, and Poppy have, shoot me some facts and sources in the comments and I'll edit as is necessary. I want this to be factual, aware, and a conversation. This can be a contentious and heated topic, a matter I respect and want to treat with the knowledge and awareness to make this a truly informed discussion of substance use.  
> Because what better place to have this discussion than in a fanfic for a children's movie?


	8. Dinner and a Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner and a show and Arnold rolling around on the floor singing High School Musical Karaoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my finals have come and gone and I'm on summer break. Let's see if I can do a better upload schedule now that school isn't a factor!

Brad glared at the trio standing in the doorway of the living room. The tall blonde woman with her arms wrapped around the shoulders of her shorter companions simply smirked in response. _What could be have possibly done to deserve this?_

“Now, come on, Brad,” Helga purred. “I only want to show a little hospitality for our guest. And what goes better with dinner than a show?”

“Dessert. Air. Nihilistic Dread. How about pleasant conversation? All better than a show,” Brad answered. 

“Brad, Brad, Brad,” Helga sighed. “You're going to have to get used to performing in front of an audience if you want to do well as a poet.”

“A poet?!” Poppy gasped.

Brad groaned in defeat. “Welp, that cat is never going back in the bag.”

“You want to be a poet?” Poppy asked, enthralled by the new information. She was learning so much about her new (almost) friend! 

“He doesn't want to _be_ a poet. He already is one,” Helga interrupted. “He wants to get _paid_ for being a poet.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can cool it with the purple prose now, Helga.” Brad said. “I'll read something.” With that, the teen mounted the coffee table once again. 

Arnold raised an eyebrow. “You say that like you aren't performing your own poetry.”

“That's because I'm not. I'm going to read some Emerson for you folks. I hope you like thirty page essays.” Brad cackled. 

Helga snorted. “Please! You and I both know you're going to break out his poetry. You know you want to perform Limits.”

The teen narrowed his eyes. The teacher met his glare head on. Clearing his throat, Brad cast his gaze out the audience. He rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath in, letting his body settle into a loose but stable stance. The teen was strong, confident, and filled with the heart and soul of one of America’s most renowned essayists and poets.

“ _Who knows this or that?  
Hark in the wall to the rat:  
Since the world was, he has gnawed;  
Of his wisdom, of his fraud  
What dost thou know?  
In the wretched little beast  
Is life and heart,  
Child and parent,  
Not without relation  
To fruitful field and sun and moon.  
What art thou? His wicked eye  
Is cruel to thy cruelty_.”

Poppy’s Heart was stuttering in her chest. _Is this art_? Everything felt so visceral, emotional, raw. It felt like someone had taken a shovel to her chest and dug so deep down-- past her, her lungs and her heart-- the very fabric of her soul was being plucked at. Every word was echoing in her bones and she didn't even understand what any of it meant. Whenever she performed, all she wanted was for her audience to feel joy but _this_ \-- Poppy could tell this was special. It wasn’t the poetry that was read but the way Brad channeled it. He gave the poem the gift of life and it was absolutely breathtaking. It was incredibly clear that Brad was really _freaking_ special.

Holy mother of toaster strudels did Poppy want to be his friend.

Brad hopped off the coffee table, freeing Poppy of whatever paralysis spell his performance had cast on her. Shooting Helga s smirk, the boy gestured to the makeshift stage behind him. “It’s only fair, Helga,” he teased. “After all, what’s better than dinner and a show?”

The blonde raised one thick eyebrow at the challenge before leaping onto the coffee table. And so began one of the most interesting dinners Poppy had ever had. The single demonstration had somehow become an entire showcase that eventually devolved into Arnold aggressively singing High School Musical Karaoke while rolling on the floor. Definitely one of the best dinners Poppy had ever had. There was this indescribable and yet incredibly obvious feeling of comfort and belonging, as though someone had hung a giant flashing neon sign of the word _family_ in the house. Poppy wanted to spend every night here, but with even more friends and family members-- like a big, happy get together every night. Poppy’s ideal life was a feel good sitcom with a large cast of happy family members and friends and nowhere was this wish better fulfilled than in the Pataki-Shortman household.

Poppy’s eyes skirted over to Brad. Technically he was an outsider in this home just like she was, and yet she could’ve sworn he had Helga’s eyes and grin and Arnold's nose. There was simply no possible way this wasn’t exactly where he belonged. The teen in question was laughing brightly at one of Helga’s snarky comments and, Poppy could say this with much confidence with how closely she’d been watching him, he had never looked so at peace and unguarded. His gaze shifted slightly and his eyes caught hers. Something in Poppy’s chest tickled and tightened; she smiled wide to hide the inexplicable blush blooming on her cheeks. Her grin was mirrored with a small quirk of Brad’s lips before he turned his attention back to his makeshift mother. That small smile sealed his fate-- If the boy thought he’d get to go through life without a bubbly redhead named Poppy for a bestie than he was sorely mistaken.

“No escape for him, huh?” Arnold’s kind voice cut into Poppy’s thoughts.

Glancing at the man, Poppy saw the intelligence and delight glittering in his green eyes. He knew _exactly_ what she was thinking about. Seeing no point in denying it, she grinned brightly. “Everyone needs friends. He just needs a push in the right direction to realize it.”

“Poppy Kingsley is everyone’s friend,” Arnold mused. There was a beat of silence before he raised a thin, golden eyebrow. “But are you sure you want to be his friend?”

The redhead furrowed her eyebrows at the adult. “Mr. Shortman, I know Brad is a little rough around the edges but he isn’t _that_ bad! Of course I want to be his friend!” 

The man let out a startled laugh. “That wasn’t what I meant. Honestly, that kid is one of my favorite people in the world. I see a lot of myself and Helga in him plus he’s just brilliant. Brad is in no way _bad_. No, Poppy,” the blonde shook his head, “what I meant was are you sure you just want to be his _friend_?”

Poppy blinked. Her body locked up. _Brad as more than a friend?_ The thought hadn’t even occurred to her. Sure, he was cute and tall and an _amazing_ poet and artist but-- _why couldn’t he be her boyfriend, again?_ Oh! Yeah! Craig! She already had a boyfriend. That’s why Brad couldn’t be anything more than a bestie.

No matter how cute he was or how brilliantly he performed or how many smart, snarky jokes he made or how good of a boyfriend he could be-- he couldn’t be her boyfriend. Oh, also, he probably didn’t want to be her boyfriend. She probably wasn’t his type. He seemed like the kind of person who preferred someone more _subdued_. So Penny shouldn’t even try. He wouldn’t be interested anyway.

Oh. And Craig. Craig was already her boyfriend _so like yeah_.

_And stuff or whatever_.

Laughing nervously, the redhead averted her eyes. “Nah, I’ve already got a boyfriend. I really just want to be friends, that’s all.”

Arnold chuckled knowingly. “Yeah, I believe you. That’s the thing about these deep, brooding poet types.” His gaze shifted to rest on his wife and the teen she was in the midst of giving a noogie. “You think you just want to be their friend and, the next thing you know, you can’t stop thinking about them. They trap you in their depths and drag you down deep into their hearts to a place where you’ve never felt more loved or in love. There’s no escape, Poppy.” He laughed once more. His eyes reflected such a warmth and joy as he watched his wife. “Trust me, I would know.”

Poppy hummed noncommittally as she glanced over at the teen on the other couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That is the actual poem, Limits, by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Hopefully there isn't a plagiarism problem with me including it. I'm not profiting off this nor do I claim, in any way, to have written it. If there is a problem, I'll amend it quickly


	9. Don't Talk About Fight Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, but, seriously, John Muir though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Guess who isn't dead.

Giggling deviously, Poppy glanced around the corner of a liquor store to watch the entrance of a library. Last night Helga had given the redhead some very useful information-- specifically that Brad volunteered at a public library on Sundays. And, _wow, who would’ve guessed it_ , today was a Sunday. Tiptoeing past the liquor store, the girl slowly crept toward the library even though it was broad daylight and the bright colors of her clothes made her visible from a mile away. When she reached the entrance, she pushed her back flat against the door while humming a secret agent theme. After determining the coast to be clear, she hopped away from the door so she could open it. Instead the handle twisted before Poppy could grab it and the door swung open to reveal an eight year old girl. The girl stared at the strange teenager for a moment before stepping around her and continuing on her way. Poppy slipped through the door before it could swing shut and glanced around.

The library was small, fairly old, and in a dire need of new technology for checkout procedures from the looks of it. The air smelled like oatmeal raisin cookies and books. Poppy found it quite nice. Stepping up to the small wooden desk at the front, Poppy delicately rang a small bell next to a handwritten note which read _ring for service_. A small man wearing a maroon beanie and coat and yellow tinted glasses stumbled from around a corner with a tall stack of books in his arms blocking his sight.

“Uhm, yes? Hello?” He asked in a rather nasal voice. He moved forward to place his stack of books on the desk. “How may I help- Oh! Poppy!” His grin grew huge at the sight of the redhead. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hello, Mr. Ickis,” Poppy replied sweetly. “How is your band comin along?”

“Just uploaded some smooth mouth harp blues onto soundcloud and they’ve been doing great!” Mr. Ickis said proudly. “200 people have bought the album so far.”

Poppy nodded. “Anyway, I had some free time in my schedule so I wanted to stop by and see if you needed help with anything.” The librarian hummed thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Also,” Poppy whispered conspiratorially, “I’m working on becoming friends with Brad, so--”

“Say no more,” Mr. Ickis said with a grin. “Brad’s one of my best workers and could really use a,” the man paused to wink, “ _friend_.”

“Uhm, okay.” Poppy responded.

“Plus I still owe you after that one incident with the rabbits.” He turned to face back towards the shelves. “Brad!” His nasal voice occupied the full space of the library. “We’ve got some extra help today!” In response, near violent shushes sounded from every corner of the library. Mr. Ickis had always been oddly loud for a librarian. “He’s reshelving nonfiction books right now if you’d like to go say hi before I put you to work.”

Grinning, the teen slipped between shelves as she hunted for a tall figure with dark hair. A gentle humming caught her ears and she slowed down so she could listen intently. The melody sounded a little like Grieg’s _In the Hall of the Mountain King_ , which was an odd choice. Such a foreboding tune could only mean one thing. Poppy rounded the corner and found Brad crouched at the foot of a bookshelf, calmly placing books as he hummed. A smile split Poppy’s cheeks as she quietly stepped up behind him. She waited a moment for his hands to be free of books before calling out.

“Hi Brad!” She yelled, immediately receiving a deafening echo of shushes back. Brad jumped a little and yelped as he whirled around to face the redhead. He quickly delivered a final shush to her as the library quieted down again. “Hi Brad,” she whispered, unrepentant even under his withering glare.

With a sigh, the boy turned back to the shelf. “Poppy,” he said curtly, “what are you doing here?”

“Volunteering,” the redhead responded cheerfully.

Brad’s shoulders drooped as he stifled a groan. “And there’s nothing else in your incredibly busy schedule you could’ve attended to?”

“Nope,” Poppy answered, popping the _p_ sound with a smile.

“Okay,” he replied with obviously false enthusiasm. “In that case, you can take the shift reading to the kids. I’ll keep reshelving. Have fun.” With that, he pushed his cart of books away to go and work somewhere Poppy wasn’t. Poppy shrugged with a large smile. Reading to kids sounded fun.

Reading to kids was not fun. She was immediately dissuaded from any possible misunderstanding on the subject as, the moment she sat down in the small pastel paint covered chair at the edge of a puzzle piece shaped rug, the children _freaking rioted_. Kids knocked chairs and piles of books over, started shouting things in English and Spanish (the latter of which Poppy’s AP Spanish classes had not prepared her for), and a few even openly sobbed. There was one tiny girl that stood directly in front of Poppy, with her hands placed on her hips as she glared at the redhead, that intimidated the teen the most.

“Where is Brad?” the girl asked angrily, her consonant sounds muffled by a few missing teeth. The tiny child didn’t blink even as a toddler screeched behind her and threw himself into a pile of puppets against the wall so he could tear into them with his new teeth and stubby fingers.

Poppy slowly rose out of the chair and tried to give the kids a disarming smile. “I think I’m going to go find him.” All at once the children froze to stare at her. Their eyes didn’t leave her form even as she slowly backed away till she could dart between the shelves and out of the sight of their chilling gaze. It didn’t take long for her to find the tall teen, who she could easily tell was trying to hide a smirk, as he delicately slid encyclopedias into their proper place. “What. the. Heck?!” Poppy hissed under her breath as she waved back in the general direction of the children’s corner.

Brad shrugged. “I figured you’d be able to handle it. Evidently not.” In the distance they could hear the noise starting to ramp up from the children's corner again. Apparently Poppy was taking too long for their tastes. A cough from behind the teens had them turning around in unison.

Mr. Ickis stood behind the two with a nervous smile as he wrung his hands. “Brad, I’m getting a lot of complaints about the noise from the larvae, could you--?”

“Yeah. I’m on it,” Brad said amicably as he stepped back from the shelf. Mr. Ickis sighed in relief and wandered back into the labyrinth of the small library’s tightly packed shelves.

“Larvae?” Poppy asked curiously as she followed Brad’s winding path back to the children.

“Yeah, honestly, I’m not sure that he isn’t some kind of alien or mole person that’s disguising himself as a human in order to integrate into society,” the teen hummed.

The redhead tilted her head. “That’s ridiculous,” she said with a small smile, thinking he was joking.

“I once saw him eat a soda can whole,” Brad murmured, his voice deathly serious. With that they emerged into the children’s area and Brad was immediately covered head to toe in child shaped leeches that clutched to any open spot on him. “You guys were being really loud,” Brad said and immediately all the children clambered off him to line up in front of him. They all glanced at the ground shamefully, kicking their feet and biting their lips. “This is a library. We have to be quiet, you know the rules.”

“Rule number 1: Don’t talk about fight club,” the one girl that had been giving Poppy the evil eye answered confidently.

Brad chuckled and ruffled her hair. “And rule number 3?”

“Quiet in the library,” she mumbled.

“What’s rule number 2?” Poppy whispered.

“Don’t talk about fight club,” Brad answered with a glance back at her. “What do we want to read today?” He asked, redirecting his attention to the group in front of him.

“Gwendolyn Brooks!” One child shoved a copy of _In the Mecca; Poems_ into his hands.

“Maya Angelou!” Another insisted, placing another book in his hands.

“John Muir!” Cried out another. Soon enough, his hands were full of poetry books. Poppy watched with a growing smile as he chuckled heartily. Honestly, there's no way people would accuse him of being a delinquent if they just looked twice at him. As children quickly settled onto the carpet to listen to Brad read, Poppy glanced around somewhat awkwardly as she stood behind the tall teen. She accidentally made eye contact with the very intimidating little girl from earlier who narrowed her eyes at her before patting the spot on the carpet next to her. Poppy gladly took up the girl’s offer and plopped herself down on the carpet. Her lap was free for only a moment before another child suddenly crawled into it and settled with his back against her chest. Poppy hummed happily and braced her arms around the kid to cradle him. Once everyone was comfortable, Brad began reading.

Later, Poppy and Brad were pushing a cart full of books and reshelving while talking quietly. 

“John Muir predicted everything! The bee crisis, the resources, hell, he even suggested the possibility of a global disaster like global warming!” Brad whispered excitedly as he pushed a history book into its place between its brethren. 

“I've been to a few parks named after him,” Poppy whispered back as she slipped another book onto the shelves. “I didn’t realize everything he’d done though. He played such a huge role in creating nature preserves. The relationship between him and Teddy Roosevelt is just,” she couldn't find the words to explain the awe at the history she'd never known. Poppy wished that her history classes could be as fascinating as the history that she stumbled upon today. Somehow, discovering history by yourself made it infinitely more enthralling. Of course, her excitement was only expounded upon by the burgeoning relationship developing between herself and Brad. She was in solid positive acquaintance territory, fast tracking to friendship junction. Full stop. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars. It didn't matter what Arnold said. 

Brad shot Poppy a sarcastic grin and her stomach did a quadruple back flip. The redhead audibly gulped even as she reciprocated with a bright smile. She could absolutely not develop feelings for Brad. 

Or at least, she could ignore them.

Or,ya know, just not act on them. 

Easy.

\-----

Poppy scrambled excitedly down the school halls. Numerous people shot her smiles and greetings that she hastily returned as she ran towards her target. Knowing him, he was hiding out somewhere quiet and ruminating on something deep-- perfectly distracted and an excellent target for a surprise hug. The redhead giggled to herself as she rounded the last corner separating her from the stairwell leading to the roof. The rooftop was a great place to check for someone poetic and brooding like Brad.

“Poppy!” The loud call of her name halted the girl in her tracks. “Babe! I haven’t heard from you in, like, two days. You didn’t text me back about the parties or anything.” The girl slowly turned around to face her whining boyfriend.

“Craig,” she said with a light, rubbery smile plastered onto her cheeks. “Sorry, I’ve just been super busy lately. You know how it is.” With that, Poppy began inching away, trying to discretely end the conversation there.

Her boyfriend did not take the hint. “You couldn’t make time to go out with me, _your boyfriend_?” he asked with a frown.

“Other people needed my time more than you did,” Poppy replied, her hands on her hips. “I’d promised the library I’d volunteer hours this weekend, Craig. I couldn’t blow them off just to go to parties with you.” _She didn’t need to mention that another teen happened to be volunteering for those hours too_.

Craig’s brow furrowed. “Poppy,” he spoke gently, “couples need to spend time together. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like you’re avoiding me or something. Supportive girlfriends don’t hide from their partner.”

The redhead fought back a groan as she struggled to keep her smile in place. “Babe, I saw you _two days ago_. Everything is fine. I had stuff I needed to take care of, that’s all. I can’t spend all of my time glued to your side, otherwise, how could I get any of my work done?”

“But, Poppy,” Craig argued. “ _I_ should be your number one concern, not some library!”

“High school boyfriend is nowhere near a vital priority in life,” a low voice cut in. The arguing couple turned to find a tall, Hispanic teen leaning against the lockers casually. “So sorry to break it to you.”

Craig scowled and Poppy had to fight to keep her face from lighting up with a dazzling grin. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to eavesdrop?” Craig hissed.

Rolling his eyes, Brad pushed off the lockers and approached the pair. He gestured to his ear with an exaggerated expression. “See these? These are called _ears_. They’re these things on the side of your face that encode sounds in the environment for your brain to interpret, which is to say, they let you hear. Fun fact about ears,” he said with a mocking smile, “you can’t turn them off. So when someone is being _incredibly loud_ ,” Brad waved his hand to the small crowd of students that had gathered around the couple. “People are going to hear. Maybe,” he glared at Craig, “ _you_ should think twice about what it is your nearly shouting _in public_ instead of accusing people of eavesdropping.”

As Craig floundered for words, Poppy sprouted a glowing smile. “If you’ll excuse me, Craig, I’ve only got five minutes to get to an impromptu student council meeting.” With that she spun and walked down the hall, around the corner, and immediately pressed her back flat against the wall. Peeking around the corner, she watched the two teen boys left glower at each other. Brad’s relaxed stance never faltered, even as the most popular boy shook with frustration in front of him. Huffing, Craig spun on his heel and stalked down the hall. Brad watched him go before turning so he could take the stairs up.

Poppy slowly creeped around the corner before darting up the stairs behind him. The redhead tailed the tall teen as he coolly traversed the halls, his peers giving him a wide berth. Eventually, Brad and his stalker ended up on the top floor of the school. The Hispanic boy darted into a classroom to his right after a cursory glance of his surroundings. Poppy knew for a fact that the classroom he'd ducked into had only one entrance and exit, the door he'd just gone through. So why in the world would he be spending time in an empty classroom on the top floor?

Her earlier thoughts hit her like a freight train. _The rooftop_. The poetic, brooding rooftop! Sneaking into the classroom, the redhead quickly spotted the open window and complete lack of Brad. Of course, he'd be too edgy to just use the stairs.

Scrambling back to the staircase, the girl took the steps two at a time before meeting a featureless metal door with a padlock. Okay, maybe the padlock was also a factor in using the window. Luckily, Poppy was so universally beloved, she'd long since learned the codes to every lock in the building courtesy of the oh so sweet janitorial staff. They were some of the kindest people, honestly, Poppy could talk with them for hours (while helping them mop and clean the school, which she did on occasion). 

With that, the redhead was on the other side of the door. She scanned the horizon, looking for a dramatic and silhouetted figure, when she heard a gentle humming. Turning around and slowly walking around the bulkhead, she found Brad leaning against the brick walls with large and clunky headphones over his ears. They looked ramshackle, held together by duct tape and stubbornness alone.

“Simon and Garfunkel?” Poppy asked, delighting in the way her almost ( _so close!_ ) friend startled. Brad narrowed his eyes and gave her a stiff nod. "How am I not surprised?"

The boy let out a dry chuckle, turning back to stare at the sky. Chewing the inside of her cheek, Poppy couldn't help but notice the way his irises reflected the gentle blue above the pair. She slipped into a sitting position next to him.

"Thanks," she whispered, not really intending to be heard. Brad pretended he couldn't hear her.


	10. Yeah, sure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bunch of existential rambling courtesy of the most brooding edgelord of troll village.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this will be enough to tide you guys over for a few weeks. Essay/finals season is upon me so I'll be radio silent for a bit.  
> I believe someone was asking about Brad's point of view in the comments of the last chapter. I've got you covered, along with a little explanation for why he might seem more accommodating.

_FUck_.

Brad cursed as the slow strumming of a guitar accompanied the lyrics filtering into his ears. The drum beat picked up and the music came to life even as the lyrics celebrated feelings of loneliness and apathy.

“ _I have no need for friendship_ ,” his headphones sang sweetly, “ _friendship causes pain. It’s laughter and it’s loving I disdain_.” Oh the irony.

As if on dramatic cue, Poppy chose that moment to abruptly apparate next to the teen on the rooftop. Of course she’d show up now. Poppy needed to be present for any melancholic ruminating Brad might be having on their relationship and her very existence-- anything to inconvenience his ability to sort out his emotions. She could be so--

“Thanks,” he heard her whisper, having settled quietly next to him.

 _Fine_. She could stay on the rooftop with him but she had better not expect a conversation. He was here to melodramatically ponder in silence like the edgy poet he aspired to be. A slight ruffling caught his attention. Glancing back to the readhead at his side, she was popping little cupcake shaped earbuds into her ears. _Okay, cool_. Definitely not talking then. _Great_. That is exactly what he wanted to happen, and he is definitely not feeling some kind of weird, contradictory disappointment-- because that would be stupid. Returning his attention to the sky, the teen did his best to forget the girl beside him was within arm’s length: close enough to ki-- punch. Absolutely within punching distance. He was thinking about what it would be like to punch Poppy and absolutely nothing else.

The girl was successfully wearing him down and it was infuriating. She hunted him ruthlessly then showed him she wasn’t the perfect and infallible Poppy Kingsley she seemed to be, bonded with him over his interests. Poppy was a masterful manipulator and Brad was, frankly, a little terrified at how efficiently and cleanly she had wormed her way into his good graces. He might accidentally stumble and call her something ridiculous like _friend_ outloud. Now that would be a death sentence.

Brad did not want friends. He did not need friends. Friends were a liability that he could not and would not take on. He preferred the quiet of a solitary life anyway. Brad was a rock, an island. He was also plagiarizing Simon and Garfunkel for his internal monologue. Emotional turbulence was actually inhibiting his creative output; he was a failure of a suffering artist. Now he’d never live up to his lifelong dream of being a bad modern parody of Edgar Allen Poe. _Damn_. If only booze wasn’t so expensive, he could give rampant alcoholism a try as a muse. His existential dread was getting somewhat stale and infinitely more terrifying as a result.

Honestly, confronting his burgeoning feelings for Poppy would be easier, at least he wouldn’t be consumed by a nihilistic abyss. Said feelings were definitely only platonic because if friendship causes pain, he didn’t even want to think about what romance invited. Not that he actually wanted to have a romantic relationship with her. He didn’t. Why in the world would he ever be attracted to the breathing personification of a glitter spewing, singing birthday party card? A real life Disney princess, complete with randomly bursting into song? A conventionally attractive manic pixie dream girl who could teach him the meaning of happiness? Yeah. _No thanks_.

So long as he kept thinking of her like that and not as _Poppy_ , he might just make it out of High School alive.

\-----

Whatever it was he was trying to mentally resolve, he still hadn’t dealt with property by the time theater practiced rolled around. Aggressively slathering paint onto a background piece, the teen could not find a comfortable spot in his head. No matter what he tried to focus on while doing the mind-numbing work, Brad's rights somehow led back to Poppy-- which was annoying as hell. Was this how she ensnared everyone else, using some freak mind control type deal to make it impossible for people to think of anything but her until they finally convinced themselves that _of course_ she was their friend, how else could you explain constantly thinking about her. Honestly, Brad truly wished the high school princess was a mind-controlling secret government super spy experiment because at least that would be interesting. How soul shattering would it be to have his gruff exterior worn down by an average popular High Schooler?

Except, okay, maybe she was the farthest thing from average. She was constantly juggling so much Brad would classify her as impossible rather than normal. The girl was straight up insane, tackling everything she did. It was, frankly, amazing as hell that she was so capable. Poppy toed the line of brilliance in the strangest way Brad had ever seen, in that she wasn't strange at all. She excelled at an abundance of normalcy. She wasn't a weird artist or poet, praised for their abstractness and genius in being different. Poppy was just damn good at being alive. It was intimidating and weirdly pitiful, at least when Brad was in an ultra-individualistic mindset. After all, what Poppy was succeeding at was fitting in, playing the role society set out for her, following the rules made to keep people in line. Something about the way Poppy was so thoroughly defined by the rules of society was off-putting to Brad. She seemed a little more powerless and two dimensional, a puppet whose strings were being pulled by a soulless conglomeration of oppressive ideas with the pure intent of dissuading individuality-- or, at least, that's how he felt when the existential dread was running high-- reading a little too much Camus and the like. 

“That's quite the intense stare,” a teasing voice cut in. “What exactly is so interesting about Poppy Kingsley?” Brad swung his head to glare at the smirking blonde teacher kneeling next to him. “You’re just lucky she didn’t notice. No telling what the girl would do if she thought she was getting under your skin,” Helga hummed. Watching Brad violently flinch at her words, the teacher raised a thick brow. “Maybe she’d do something like hunt you down when you’re volunteering at the library so she could spend time with you and get to know you better, learn about your interests, hmmm?” 

The teen’s glare sharpened at her words. “So you’re the one that sent her to the library yesterday,” he said with a scowl.

“And it clearly went swimmingly,” she shot back. “You aren’t ignoring her anymore. I hear you even got in a little fight with our leading man, Craig, over her.”

Scoffing, Brad rolled his eyes. “You shouldn’t listen to High School gossip.”

“What?” Helga asked with mock surprise. “Are you saying you didn’t shove Craig into the lockers and threaten to cut his hair with a switchblade? Or that you didn’t light a small fire, setting off the smoke detectors, and then cackle madly when everyone was soaked by the sprinklers?”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Brad groaned as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The hour long meeting I had to have with the principal about your _quote unquote destructive_ behavior this morning says otherwise.” Seeing Brad’s panicked expression, the blonde lazily waved her hand in the air. “No worries, kid. I pointed him towards the surveillance footage we have of the halls that proves you did none of that-- not to mention that no one remembers the sprinklers supposedly going off this morning. You’re in the clear.”

“Lived to die another day,” Brad muttered.

“That’s the spirit,” Helga proclaimed cheerily. “That’s the kind of can-do attitude I expect from the winner of the Michael Blumberg youth poetry contest.” She slammed her palm against his back. “Comes with a pretty trophy and a nice bit of scholarship money, kiddo. So, tell me, what have you got cookin’ for this?”

Pushing a smirk over the genuine smile that tried to overtake his lips, Brad shot Helga a furtive glance. “It’s a surprise so you’ll just have to wait and see.”

“You little,” Helga jumped on Brad’s back to try and catch him in a headlock. “Are you trying to keep secrets from me?” She laughed as he struggled in her grip. It took a few seconds but he managed to flip her over him, her back hitting the ground with a loud thump. The blonde continued cackling as she swept his feet out from under him, causing him to tumble down and catch himself on his knees and elbows. It wasn’t long before the two were rolling around on the ground, playfully using jiu-jitsu moves on each other. Unfortunately, their tussle was loud enough to attract the attention of the other students in the area.

“Oh my god,” Poppy heard someone say. “Is Brad wrestling Mrs. Shortman?” Spinning around wide-eyed, the redhead was treated to the sight of the two large individuals tumbling around and laughing as they casually flipped, sweeped, and grappled with one another. When she spotted Brad’s ginormous smile, she couldn’t help but again be struck by how Brad never seemed as happy or at peace as he was when around Helga and Arnold. Something about his relaxed grin made her insides wobble like gelatin on a rollercoaster, which she chose to ignore in light of an exclamation from a nearby student.

“I think Brad is attacking the teacher!” One teen cried out. Poppy didn’t understand how they could come to that conclusion as both Brad and Helga were clearly laughing and smiling like they were showing off their teeth in a toothpaste commercial, but people will be people. Remembering that Brad didn’t have the best reputation, the girl knew she needed to intervene to prevent more terrible rumors about him from flooding the school. She stepped towards the pair when a hand fell on her shoulder and pulled her back.

Poppy was whirled around and came face to face with Craig. “Poppy, what are you doing?” He asked with a frown as his grip on her shoulder tightened and he pulled her away from the rest of the group. “He’s dangerous. You need to keep your distance.”

“No, Craig,” she spoke confidently, “look. He’s obviously not attacking Mrs. Shortman. They’re just wrestling. You can see that they’re both smiling and laughing.”

With a sigh and a shake of his head, Craig pulled the redhead closer to him. “Poppy,” he admonished, “I don’t mean what he’s doing right _now_ is dangerous.” He shot a judgmental glance at the wrestling duo, “although it certainly is. I’m saying that Brad Azuletta, the person himself, is dangerous. You shouldn’t associate with him.”

Furrowing her eyebrows, Poppy crossed her arms. “Craig, _no_. I’ve been getting to know Brad and he isn’t--”

“What do you mean, _getting to know_?” The boy asked sharply.

“I’ve been trying to become his friend,” she responded incredulously. “You know this. You were there when we were all talking about this.”

“Poppy,” Craig groaned in frustration, “can’t you see that he’s dangerous? You need to stay away from him.”

“First of all, he isn’t dangerous. He’s an adorkable poet who quotes philosophers from the twentieth century for fun and reads to children at the library on the weekend. Second of all, everyone deserves a friend. Especially Brad.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I just don’t understand why you’re so against this, against _him_.”

“ _Adorable_?” Craig hissed, “he’s a delinquent, a bully! He’s just manipulating you-- trying to steal you away from me! Poppy, you can’t trust him! Just listen to yourself!”

Shoving his hands off her shoulders, the redhead glared at the boy in front of her. “No. Craig, you need to listen to me and respect my opinions.”

“Poppy,” he grabbed her arms, “listen to me.”

“Let go of me, Craig.” She said, her voice deadly serious.

“Poppy, just--”

Poppy was sick and tired of this. _This_. He didn’t listen to her. She’d tell him she wanted to order a veggie burger on a date and he’d order her a tuna sandwich. She’d ask him to review an essay she wrote for history class and he’d tell her he couldn’t because he had to practice for the next big game, only for her to spot him at the cafe when he said he’d be practicing. She’d try to have a conversation about politics or morality only for him to completely shut down any point she tried to make without considering her point of view. She’d try to say no when he shoved weed in her face and he hadn’t listened. He never listened. 

And he still wasn’t listening. His grip on her arms tightened.

“Craig. Let go.”

With a frustrated growl, the teen clenched his hands, squeezing her arms to the point of it being painful before releasing her. “Poppy, I can’t believe you aren’t listening to me.” He ran one of those bruising hands through his gorgeous hair. “If you’re going to keep acting like this, we might have to break up.”

“Yeah, sure.” Poppy answered as she pushed past him.

Craig stood frozen for a second before spinning around to look at the redhead heading back towards the crowd of students. “ _What_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READER INTERACTION TIME.  
> My lovely readers, I'm going to be in hell for a few weeks before I get to get back to writing this. I find that I write far more efficiently with the right music playing-- something to get my headspace where the tone of the story needs to be. So, to that end, I have a favor to ask of you beloved readers.  
> Help Poppy compose a music playlist for Brad. This is actually going to be incorporated into the story later but, honestly, it'd be awesome if I could listen to it while writing. So, pretty, pretty please, leave song suggestions in the comments for a playlist from Poppy to Brad. Also leave suggestions for the name of the playlist if you'd like.  
> Obviously you don't have to do this if you don't want to, but I would super appreciate it. More than anything else, have fun with it!  
> For the record, I'm putting the He-Man version of What's Going On by the Four Non-Blondes on there, so you already know where my taste levels lie.


	11. Some Kind of Pitch Perfect Parody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Craig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALS/ESSAYS ARE OVER. 
> 
> HAVE THIS.

“Alright,” Poppy’s loud, upbeat voice cut through the tense aura surrounding the students watching the tussling pair. Brad froze, reacting to Poppy’s voice. She sounded as cheerful as ever but there was something burning under her words. Something had upset her. “That’s enough you two,” she strolled up to the pair with an easy smile and it struck Brad as oddly forced. “We all know Mrs. Shortman is going to win anyway,” she teased. As if to punctuate the statement, Helga used Brad’s abrupt focus on Poppy to hip bump sweep the teen back underneath her and quickly trapped his arm in a figure four lock, forcing him to tap out. “ _And_ , point proven!” Poppy said with that same static smile.

Brad’s eyebrows furrowed as his gaze never left the awkward stretching of her cheeks. Helga followed his sightline to the stiff smile and quickly jabbed an elbow in his side. The pair engaged in a quick staring contest that made Poppy reconsider the existence of telepathy because there was some kind of conversation happening between the two. Eventually, Brad let out a graceless huff and hopped to his feet. He was struggling with whether or not to approach Poppy about whatever it was that had her looking like a cardboard cutout of herself when the twins she was friends with suddenly looped their arms around her and dragged her away.

“It’s for the best,” Helga interrupted his probably too intense staring after the retreating girls. Brad refocused on her knowing smirk and the complete understanding in her eyes. “People like us usually aren’t the best for super heavy emotional talks anyway.”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair before letting it slide slowly down his face. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Chances are we’d go full Vulcan.”

“Emotions? What are emotions?” Helga mocked as she pushed herself off the ground. “We wouldn’t know. _Haha_. Definitely not us. We’re definitely not so consumed by the brute force and passion of our emotions that the only way to stay sane is to push any and all feelings away with a ten foot pole. _Ha_.”

“Any claims otherwise are slander and will be dealt with in court,” Brad finished, leveling a stoic nod to his teacher.

“Logically,” the blonde replied with an equally expressionless face. Only people who truly knew the pair well would be able to see the humor dancing in their eyes.

Of course, the only person in the room who had a chance at spotting it was currently being dragged away to a corner of the room.

“Poppy,” Cheyenne hissed as she helped her twin pull the teen away from their peers. This wasn’t something they would need an audience for. “Girl, did you seriously just do that?”

“Because if you did,” Sharon whispered harshly, “everyone is going to flip.”

“Did I do _what_?” Poppy asked slowly, raising her eyebrows.

The twins shared a quick incredulous glance before turning back to Poppy with wide eyes. “ _Break up with Craig_!” They quietly shrieked.

“Oh,” Poppy hummed. 

The twins seemed shaken by the news. Sharon's firm, if shivering, grasp on the redhead’s shoulder and Cheyenne’s careful gaze on the redhead’s face assured the girl that the pair thought she should be devastated. Honestly, Poppy thought she should be too. But there's no echoing hollowness in her chest, no thorns of regret digging into her every thought, nor is there any weight pulling down the corners of her lips. Poppy felt fine. Great, actually, as though she was stretching out sore, aching limbs that had been neglected for too long. She'd just ended a years long relationship, one she'd almost decided was going to be a constant in her life. Half of Poppy had already accepted that she was probably going to marry Craig and had planned around it accordingly. Everything was up in the air now. She didn't know what was going to happen next. 

She had never felt more free. 

“Yeah,” Poppy said with a growing smile. “I did.”

Both twins eyebrows raised slowly before they shot one another one of those psychic glances that Poppy was starting to get really jealous of.

“Good for you, girl,” Sharon decided. She slapped her hand on Poppy’s back. “I always thought he wasn’t right for you.”

Cheyenne grinned. “You’re coming to our house tonight for a sleepover. We need a complete play by play.”

“Beginning to end,” Sharon agreed.

“And to celebrate your new bachelorette-hood!” Cheyenne finished.

“Although,” Sharon said with a smirk, “who knows how long it’ll last.” Poppy and Cheyenne both shot the pleased twin confused looks. “Oh, come on!” She huffed. “Don’t tell me I’m still the only one paying attention!” At the continued incredulous stares, the teen sighed and gestured back to the classroom-- specifically to a grumbling boy who had somehow been roped into giving the teacher a piggy back ride as she cackled maliciously. “I know we already had a conversation about how you want to befriend him, but I’m pretty sure your end goals have changed.”

Cheyenne gasped as her hand whipped out to smack the redhead on the arm. “ _What_?! Poppy! We need _all_ the details, girl!” Giggling manically, the girl swept her sister up in a hug. “This sleepover is going to be better than Tv drama!”

Sharon nodded in agreement. “ _Oh my god!_ Yes,” she agreed. “And I’m still totally getting a bunch of money from Smith and Benny. I swear he knits!”

“Promise you’ll share your winnings? ‘Cause remember that little boutique we stumbled upon the other day?” Cheyenne asked.

“ **Yes!** Those blouses!” Sharon squealed.

Poppy chuckled weakly, her face a bright scarlet as she inched away from the incredibly distracted twins. Okay, _maybe_ she felt really good about her decision to break up with Craig. _Maybe_ she needed to reevaluate her relationship with him and explore more of what the world had to offer. _Maybe_ she had successfully befriended a really attractive, interesting, and all-around great guy at the same time she was reconsidering her relationship with her boyfriend, but that didn’t mean that she-- _even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t_ \-- that wasn’t why she broke up with Craig. Breaking up with Craig was for **Poppy** and Poppy alone. Stepping out into the hallway for a moment of peace, she ran a hand through her long strawberry blonde locks. She’d broken up with Craig because he made her feel--

“Poppy.” A familiar voice shocked the girl out of her thoughts and her her jolting back into the wall, bumping her head with a loud thump.

“Craig,” she whispered, gingerly reaching a hand around to feel the tender spot on her skull.

“Look, Poppy,” he said slowly, an easy smile plastered onto his face. It looked so fake. “That was an emotionally charged situation in there. Things got a little out of hand, things were said-- things you didn’t mean. Now that we’ve taken a moment to calm down, I’m sure you see how unreasonable you were being. I’m ready to forgive you.”

“What?” the redhead asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”

“Of course. This relationship is very important to me,” Craig said soothingly, reaching out a hand to skate across Poppy’s cheek. “I wouldn’t leave you because of one little mistake you made.”

Poppy wrenched her face out of his grasp. “No.” She stated with a frown. “I meant, _are you seriously trying to act like this is nothing_? _Like I’m somehow the problem in this relationship_?” Standing her ground, the teen crossed her arms over her chest and raised her chin high. “Because maybe I actually wanted to break up with you and, maybe, I did that for a reason!”

“What?” Craig asked, completely startled.

“You never listen to me, Craig!” Poppy said angrily. “You don’t respect me, my thoughts, or my choices because you won’t even bother to listen to anything I say!”

“Poppy, what are you talking about?”

“I said **no**!” She continued. “I told you I didn’t want to try weed. That was supposed to be _my_ decision! I’m the one who gets to choose what goes into my body, not you. Yet you decided anyway!”

“Poppy, I didn’t make you do anything,” Craig hissed, anger easily seeping into his tone. “You decided for yourself--”

“I didn’t!” She insisted. “You told me ‘ _if you really cared about me Poppy, you would do this_ ’ and ‘ _good girlfriends do this and that for their boyfriend, Poppy_ ’. You held our relationship hostage and I’ve decided it wasn’t worth what you’re making me do.”

“I have always let you be your real self--” he tried again.

“You have never bothered to learn anything about the real me.” Poppy quickly shut him down. “You have been trying to shove me into a mold of what you want in a girlfriend without ever looking at what you already had. I’m tired and I’m done.”

There were a few tense seconds of silence before Craig let out a frustrated huff. “Tell Mrs. Shortman that I’m quitting the play.”

“ _ **What**_?!” Poppy exclaimed. “But we completely changed the musical arrangements to suit your vocal range-- which no one else in the club has! There’s no one that could replace you!”

“Baseball needs more of my time right now,” Craig said simply.

“Craig, I swear to god if this is because of us breaking up,” the redhead growled.

“Oh my god, Poppy,” he threw his arms in the air. “You spent all that time whining about how I don’t listen or respect your decisions and look what's happening now. _I can’t believe you aren’t respecting my decision to leave the play_.” With that the boy turned and began walking down the hallway.

“This was between us, Craig! Don’t take it out on everyone in the theater club! You know how hard they’ve been working!” She called after him. The teen made no show of hearing her as he turned the corner and disappeared. “Motherplucker,” the girl mumbled. 

Marching back into the theater room, her eyes quickly sought out a tall blonde. “Where’s Mrs. Shortman?” she asked the room at large.

“She left with Brad a few minutes ago to get some stuff from her classroom,” Benny answered. Poppy frowned. They must’ve used the exits opposite the hallway she’d been arguing with Craig in. She doubted either would’ve been able to resist stepping in. Setting off immediately, the girl sped towards the classroom even as frustrated thoughts bombarded her mind.

_Why was Craig such a--_

_If only she could’ve--_

_She didn’t ask for--_

_Stupid teen drama bull--_

_Maybe she should’ve just--_

A voice echoing down the empty hallway completely derailed all the angry trains of thought assaulting her brain. Someone was singing It’s More Than a Feeling. Someone with an incredible vocal range and a beautiful voice. Someone who was perfect to replace Craig. Picking up speed, the girl grinned maniacally as she followed the voice, not realizing she hadn’t changed her path at all.

Finding the room the voice was coming from, she swung the door open wide and stepped in. Helga stood at the front of the room, next to her desk, with her arms loaded up with boxes and her phone perched on top, blaring a karaoke version of the 80s rock song. Brad was making his way across the classroom, weaving between desks effortlessly even with just as many boxes in his arms and the perfect tune he was carrying. 

“ _I see my marianne walkin’ away_ ,” Brad belted, never noticing the stunned redhead at the front of the room.

“ **Oh My GAHHD, BRAD**!” That was of course until she shouted at the top of her lungs.

Just like that, it was Nietzsche quotes on top of a stool all over again and Brad came tumbling down with all the boxes atop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still taking recommendations for playlists. And by playlistS I mean I started composing one for Poppy from Brad.   
> One of the songs I threw in the For Poppy playlist is Out of My League by Fitz and the Tantrums.


	12. He Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knitting and Crocheting are not the same thing. I would know. I can do both.

“Kid,” Helga called out as she set the boxes in her arms down on a nearby desk. “You alive?” A muffled grumbling from underneath the hot mess on the floor sent the blonde into a laughing fit. “Good to know.”

“This is perfect!” Poppy practically shouted as she darted to the pile of boxes on the floor. “You’re perfect!” She started carelessly shoving boxes off the teen.

“Every particular in nature,” Brad mumbled, not bothering to get up off the floor.

“A leaf, a drop, a crystal,” Helga continued, “a moment of time is related to the whole.”

“And partakes of the perfection of the whole,” Brad finished.

“Uh,” Poppy shared a confused smile with the pair. “Okay?”

“It’s a Ralph Waldo Emerson quote,” Helga answered. “It’s a game we’ve started playing.”

“You said perfect,” Brad muttered as he began to push himself off the ground, “so we talked about perfection.”

“Which reminds me!” The loud shout right in his ear had the tall teen cringing, wishing he could just lay back down on the floor and do absolutely nothing for a bit. “You’re perfect, Brad!”

“Agree to disagree,” he huffed.

“Ah! Mrs. Shortman, you don’t even know!” Poppy whirled around to look at the teacher. “Craig quit the play!”

Helga’s relaxed expression shifted to absolutely murderous in less than a second. “That _motherfucker_!”

“That’s what I said!” Poppy cried out. “Well, I said _plucker_ , but, uh, the point stands.”

“What bullshit excuse did he give for quitting the play?” Helga hissed, her clenched fists digging roughly into her hips. The teens could easily see she was fighting back the urge to punch something, _anything_.

“Ah,” Poppy started.

“The kid _knew_ the level of commitment he had to have for this production when we _changed the goddamn score just to suit him_! So this, **this** , is no mere accident!” Gritting her teeth, the teacher began to pace. “He’s doing this to cripple us. To hurt us.”

“It’s,” Poppy tried again, guilt creeping into her insides. She knew Craig quit the play because of her. _She_ was the one who ruined the play.

“How childish is he?” Helga growled. Stopping her pacing in front of Poppy. It was easy to see the self doubt in the redhead’s eyes, the way she was starting to fold in on herself.”How cowardly,” she huffed before kneeling the girl, “trying to use all of us to hurt you?” Poppy’s small gasp confirmed the teacher’s suspicions. Roughly tousling the long strawberry locks atop her student’s head, Helga smirked. “What a _dick_.”

“I,” Poppy’s voice hitched and everyone realized at the exact same moment she was on the verge of crying. “I ruined the play.”

“No,” Helga hummed. “All you did was cut someone toxic out of your life.”

“This is just the withdrawal symptoms,” Brad chimed in, trying not to look anywhere near as awkward as he felt in the moment. He felt so foreign and unwelcome in this private moment.

“The play is going to be fine,” Helga said. “I’m the one in charge of it. What is more important, though, is that you’re going to be better than ever.” Poppy smiled and rubbed at her eyes. “Damn,” Helga whistled. “I’m actually pretty good at this emotional stuff. Nevermind what I said before, Brad.”

“Brad!” Poppy shouted, jolting upwards. “That’s right! You’re the perfect replacement for Craig! You have the range! I heard it!”

His immediately flinch backwards and the panicked glances he was sending Helga were not a positive sign. “I don’t sing.”

“No, no! You definitely can! I just heard you!” Poppy insisted.

“ _Every wall is a door_ ,” Helga teased.

“I,” Brad repeated very slowly, “do not sing.” He pushed himself off the ground and began to gather boxes.

“But, _Brad_! The play!” Poppy whined, helping grab boxes.

“I don’t sing,” the teen shot back.

“The play!” she repeated. This conversation continued through the rest of practice. And afterwards.

“Brad,” Poppy insisted as she followed the teen and teacher duo down the sidewalk. “Think of everyone who has worked so hard on the play!”

“Poppy,” Brad replied with a scowl. “No.”

“Brad!” Drawing out the vowel sound, Poppy’s voice reminded Brad of the loud, prolonged tweeting of the whistles that hung around beefy gym teachers’ necks.

“As _cute_ as this conversation is,” Helga cut in, “a truly intense and insightful look into the struggles of teenagehood; a modern masterpiece of drama and art reflecting the realities of everyday life; the very pinnacle of wit, if you will.” She paused her mocking and gestured to the door in front of the trio. “We’re here.” Pushing open the door revealed a room Poppy had only recently become acquainted with.

“Wait,” Poppy asked, startled. “Did Brad and I follow you all the way home on accident?” Scratching idly at her cheek, the redhead murmured, “you know, it did feel like we did a lot of walking.”

“ _You_ followed _us_ on accident,” Brad answered, casually entering the Shortman homestead. It was clear in the way his shoulders and guard dropped that he felt just as comfortable, if not more so, here as at his actual home.

Dropping a messenger bag on the floor that Poppy didn’t remember seeing the teacher pick up, Helga called out loudly into the entryway. “Hey, football head! We’re back. Brought along another stowaway.” She marched into the home.

“I’ll start on dinner,” Brad announced, dropping his backpack next to Helga’s bag and making his way towards the kitchen. Poppy lingered in the doorway hesitantly before stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She trailed in the direction Helga had gone until she heard the familiar sounds of lilting cadence-soaked words.

“What we seek we shall find,” Helga’s strong voice drew Poppy in. “What we flee from flees from us.” That was good news for Poppy as she was currently seeking one blonde AP literature teacher.

“I like this one,” Arnold hummed. “What is a weed? A plant whose virtues have never been discovered.”

“More quotes?” Poppy asked. Stepping into the room, she found the two adults sitting shoulder to shoulder on a loveseat looking at their phones. “What was his name again?”

“Ralph Waldo Emerson,” Helga answered. “Classic American renaissance man, ya know, does twelve different things: author, poet, essayist. Big fan of nature, Christianity, and capitalism. A real naturalist.”

“Doing well is the result of doing good,” Arnold read aloud, “that is what capitalism is all about.”

Helga snorted. “Someone should’a told Bob that.” She redirected her attention back to the teenage girl. “Anyway, kid, you sticking around for dinner?”

“Ah,” Poppy blinked with surprise. “Can I?”

“No doubt the kid is already working on an extra serving of food,” Helga responded. “Speaking of, he can’t run away from you while he is in the kitchen, working. I need you to cement this role, kiddo. The play is depending on you.”

“Aye aye ma’am,” the teen responded with a playful salute. Popping into the kitchen, the redhead shot her fellow classmate a wide grin. “Branch!“

“I don't sing,” he responded immediately. 

“But the play!” Poppy cried out. 

Dinner was a quick affair. It wasn’t long until everyone had migrated to the couch and the TV was turned on. Helga and Arnold once again occupied the love seat, snuggling so closely and curling around one another Poppy couldn’t tell whose limbs were whose. Despite their incredibly intimate entanglement, the pair were in the middle of bickering over what they should watch.

“Helga, there’s this new documentary,” Arnold began, wrestling the remote away from his wife long enough to set a channel.

“--in these ancient tombs in South America, we find,” a deep voice began to narrate from the TV against swooping landscape images of a dense jungle forest.

“Counterargument,” Helga announced as she snatched the device back. “Pheebs said one of the stupid reality TV show channels started importing from abroad, which means insane Japanese game shows.”

A flicker of light preceded the channel change to many vibrant, flashing colors as a middle aged man began shouting into his microphone while waving aggressively at the apparent contestants behind him. “Watashi wa nihongo o shiranai!” The TV blared. “Watashi wa gūguru hon'yaku o shiyō shimashita!”

“Okay, maybe that documentary wasn’t all that interesting,” Arnold hummed. He managed to pull the remote back out of her grip, “But there’s this other one airing tonight that absolutely falls within your interests.”

“Edgar Allen Poe’s rampant alcoholism--” the TV had only just begun to ssay before the channel was already changing again.

“Or,” Helga declared loudly with the newly liberated remote in her hands once again. “There’s this terrible reality TV show about these incredibly pompous assholes and we can laugh at their petty problems and misery!”

“--just lisTEN TO ME FOR ONCE IN YOUR PATHETIC LIFE, KAIT--” A shrill voice from the TV screeched before the TV once again did an abrupt 180.

“--ungle spans more than--”

“Watashi wa Nihon ni ōi--”

“--nificent spotted leopard traversing--”

“--AITLYNN! GET YOUR SORRY SILICONE FILLED ASS BACK HERE--”

Poppy was pretty sure she hadn’t heard a single line of dialogue to fruition and this was probably the most fun she’d ever had watching TV.

“--lass eye referred to England’s well known--”

“--WILL WHOOP YOU SO HARD YOU’LL BE LEAKING SILICONE YOU ABSOLUTE BIT--”

“Or,” Brad’s voice cut in. Standing behind the loveseat the two adults were trapped on, her gingerly plucked the remote from their grasp and moved it a safe distance away. “How about something I know both of you won’t fight over?” Helga looked ready to tackle the teen, even with Arnold still twined around her like a koala. Somehow both adults were mollified almost as soon as a calm, rhythmic beat started pulsing from the TV. Bold, high contrast images danced on the screen.

“What is this?” Poppy asked curiously.

“This,” Branch announced as he set the remote down far away from the adults and reached for something under one of the chairs, “is anime.”

“Blessed be,” Helga intoned cheekily.

“This one is a favorite of both these dorks,”Branch continued.

“Hey!” the So-called dorks protested from their spot on the couch.

“Because it has good music and incredible fighting scenes.”

Arnold hummed in agreement. “Nujabes is a genius. His tracks flow so perfectly with the mood of every frame of the show.” The man continued speaking about the music composer, however poppy was distracted by what she saw in Brad's hands. A thick spool of yarn was in one hand and some kind of metal needle was in the other. When he began weaving the yarn into a piece of what looked like fabric in his lap with the needle, the girl couldn't suppress a gasp. 

“ _Oh my gawd, Sharon was right. He knits_ ,” Poppy muttered under her breath. 

“This is crocheting,” Brad corrected her without bothering to look away from the TV screen. “They're different.” 

“Oh,” the redhead answered smartly. They were only halfway through the episode when Brad set down his supplies and made to stand up. 

“Gotta go to my job. See you around,” he said mostly to the adults intertwined on the loveseat. “How's that cap coming along?” Helga asked while waving an arm at the chair the teen had stashed the yarn back underneath. 

“It’ll be ready,” Brad called as he left through the front door. As soon as the lock clicked behind him, the adults scrambled off the loveseat. Arnold made a detour for the remote in order to pause the TV before both blondes settled in front of the redhead. 

“Uhm,” Poppy chuckled hesitantly. “Can I help you?” 

Huffing, Helga folded her arms across her chest. “That kid is as tight lipped as they come.” 

“Which doesn’t help us,” Arnold said with furrowed eyebrows, “help him.” 

“So,” Helga pushed a little into Poppy’s personal space. “Give us all the details. Every tiny, minor factoid about your relationship with our kid.” 

Spotting Poppy’s confused look, Arnold supplied, “Brad.” 

“We want as much information as possible. Just gossip to us like we’re a bunch of fifty something year old ladies in the same yoga for beginners class with way too much of an interest in the lives of everyone who walks by the window,” Helga continued. “An unhealthy interest in everything that doesn’t directly involve us because of how much our own lives disappoint us. Our kids never call, we haven’t seen any of our grandkids in, like, a week and a half which is pretty much a decade as far as we’re concerned. We hate how we look because we weren't mentally prepared for what aging does to the human body and we take this yoga class in order to cling onto the last vestiges of hope that the appearence we once prided ourselves on is still attainable. Of course, with the ever present threat of our looming mortality haunting our every--” 

“Brad,” Arnold interrupted, steering the conversation away from Helga’s monologue. 

“Yes,” Helga agreed. “Info, now.” 

Poppy slowly backed away from the pair. “You know, my friends invited me over for a sleepover and I should probably head over to see them.” Chuckling awkwardly, she put her hands up. “Otherwise they’ll, like, blow up my phone with all these texts and calls and just-- I’m going to go.” Just like that she was gone, the door shutting loudly behind her. 

Arnold and Helga exchanged an exasperated glance. 

“You came on too strong,” Helga said as she returned to the loveseat. 

“ _I_ came on too strong?” Arnold asked, grabbing the remote and resuming the show. 


	13. Friendship is Quality Over Quantity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's better to have a few really good friends than a lot of crappy friends. That's why I'm so grateful for yo--  
> Wait, shit, are we friends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back at it again, folks.
> 
> Now, if you haven't already noticed-- I've reached a point where I'm just kind of at fuck it levels with myself so I've removed the anonymous tag from this work. IDENTITY REVEAL. You're all now welcome to hound me for updates because I'm incredibly slow at them. I'm the worst. I've been writing all my stuff under the anonymous tag because I'm kind of a coward, and right now I'm working on pulling all my stuff out of it because I should be damn proud of my stupid ass geeky hobbies. Or something. I don't know how to explain it-- which is worrying since I'm spending so much time writing trying to figure out how to express stuff like this. Anyway, I digress. Hello, it was actually me writing this all along. Nice to meet you.

Poppy may have jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire. Pushing Poppy onto a bean bag, the twins loomed over her with matching grins. 

“Spill,” they demanded in unison. Excitement glittering in their matching gazes as they descended on the redhead.

“Uh,” Poppy chuckled loosely, sinking deeper into the plush bean bag, “where should I start?”

The twins’ expressions sombered a bit before they answered. “Craig.”

Frowning, Poppy pulled all her limbs in closer to herself in an attempt to give herself the hug she desperately needed. Her fingers moved on their own, chipped rainbow holographic nails digging into soft, freckled skin with the intent to distract. Three dozen half formed sentences bounced back and forth from her brain to the tip of her tongue before slipping down her throat and collecting into the heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. This wasn’t like talking to Mrs. and Mr. Shortman. For one thing, the twins were Craig’s friends. Would talking to them about him-- _about how she felt about him_ \-- be the kind of malicious talking behind a person’s back that Poppy had always disavowed? 

“Well,” Poppy tried, “we broke up.”

Rolling her eyes, Sharon let out a groan. “No shit. We know _that_.”

“What we want to know,” Cheyenne added helpfully, “is _why_.”

Rubbing at her forearms, Poppy chewed on her lip. “I get that just-- you guys are his friends just as much as mine. This feels kinda, I dunno, wrong talking about him without him being here to defend himself. I don’t want to be a jerk about this.”

The twins exchanged incredulous glances. “Wow,” one or both muttered under their breath, Poppy wasn’t sure.

“He and I aren’t on great terms but that doesn’t mean I should just start gossiping about him and ruining his reputation,” the redhead insisted.

“He did _not_ deserve you,” Sharon decided aloud. 

“Because he has not afforded you the same courtesy,” Cheyenne agreed, snagging her phone from her pocket to pull something up.

“He _what_?” Poppy hissed, trying to convince herself she was more surprised than she felt. Surely, the Craig she had known and dated, he wasn’t the type of person who would spread nasty rumors. She should be surprised that he was doing this. So why wasn’t she? The only emotions rattling about in her skull at the news were disappointment and exhaustion. Letting out a sigh, she accepted the glitter covered phone from Cheyenne to quickly swipe through Craig’s twitter feed.

_Real cute, Craig._

Some of it was saying Poppy was going out of control with her drug use, that she’d moved up to some hard stuff and was losing it and Craig was _so very worried_. Others were saying the pressure of everything she constantly took on was finally getting to her. Most of it, though, was about Brad being a terrible influence and corrupting the school’s darling. 

Poppy couldn’t hold back her snort. “They think Brad is a bad influence,” she told the twins who watched her with raised eyebrows. “He volunteers at the library on the weekends. All the children there adore him. He cooks these really healthy, balanced meals for his,” she couldn’t find it in herself to hesitate before continuing, “family, and he is either knitting or crocheting his own graduation gown at the request of his mom. He’s pretty much just a grandma in a teenager’s body.”

Both twins shared a quick fist bump in celebration. “I told you!” Sharon cackled. “Never doubt me!”

Cheyenne grinned. “I can’t wait to rub it in everyone’s faces!”

“Wait,” Sharon said, halting the celebration. “You said his mom. I thought he doesn’t have any parents? That is one of the few things everyone in the gossip mill does know about him for sure.”

Poppy gave them an awkward smile. “Well, she technically isn’t his mom. She just acts like she is. She’s one of the only people I’ve ever seen him let his guard down around.” 

Sharon hit her fist into her palm. “It’s Mrs. Shortman, isn’t it?” Poppy’s expression told her all she needed to know. “That is adorable.”

Cheyenne nodded. “That makes a lot of sense. I’ve never seen either of them smile except when they’re around each other.”

Poppy couldn’t help the soft grin that pushed its way onto her face at the thought of Branch’s found family. “They’re adorable together. Sometimes I even think he looks like her and her husband, like he really was their kid.”

Clapping, Sharon caught everyone’s attention. “While it sounds really freakin’ cute, I do believe there is still a matter of conversation at hand.”

“Craig,” Cheyenne said with a nod.

All the fuzzy feelings building in Poppy’s stomach fled at the thought of her ex.

“So, why’d you leave him? Is it because you are more into Brad or--?”

“No!” Poppy cried out. The twins flinched back and the redhead couldn’t help but feel guilty. “No,” she said more softly. “I left Craig because of what was happening between me and him. It wasn’t because of Brad. Brad is just a friend.”

Carefully sitting down next to the redhead, the twins both set soft, comforting hands on her shoulders. “Let it all out, girl,” Cheyenne soothed.

Taking a shaking breath in, the girl shook her head. “It all seems so stupid now. I talked with Mrs. Shortman and she made me realize that he just-- ugh!” Poppy propelled herself to her feet so she could pace circles around her friends. “He kept telling me if I didn’t do weed with him then I wasn’t being a good girlfriend. That I didn’t love him. And, like, part of me kinda sorta did in that I knew I was expected to. I liked him, but I don’t think I loved him the way I was supposed to and then every time he brought it up, I felt so awful. Then he kept dragging me to all these parties and abandoning with all these strangers and I felt so unsafe and I kept trying to talk to him about it but he was always painting me into these corners and I was getting so fed up!” She was rambling. She knew that, but she couldn’t stop now. “He was holding our relationship hostage over _weed_ , of all things _weed!_ And, it got to the point where, well, Mrs. Shortman helped me see that maybe a relationship with him wasn’t worth what it was doing to me.” Scrubbing a hand through her strawberry blonde locks, she glanced over at her two friends. “It wasn’t because of Brad. Brad is great. He’d make a great boyfriend, not just for me but for just about anyone, but he wasn’t on my mind. My own self preservation was.” 

“Why are we friends with Craig, again?” Cheyenne questioned. “Because what you just described is _not cool_. I don’t like being friends with someone like that. I didn’t think I was friends with someone like that.”

Sharon frowned. “It has felt like he has been pulling away from the Snack Pack more and more as of late.” She glanced at her phone screen, obviously examining the slanderous twitterfeed once again. “Honestly, I thought so many of these people were our friends, but the stuff they’re saying-- it’s like they don’t know you at all.”

Poppy collapsed back onto the bean bag between the twins. “Maybe trying to have hundreds of friends was overly ambitious. I think friendship might be a quality over quantity thing.” As ambivalent as her statement was, the twins could both see how hurt the redhead was by these betrayals by people she’d thought of as her friends.

“Girl, you look like you need an extra pep in your step,” Cheyenne announced.

“Some fire in your wires,” Sharon continued.

“Some sass in your ass!” Cheyenne cheered.

“In other words,” the twins chorused, drumming their hands on their thighs, “a makeover!”

It wasn’t long until Poppy’s entirety was coated in glitter. Everything from the tips of her hair follicles to the depths of her south was saturated in the sparkling dust. God, she’d needed this. If the talk with Mrs. Shortman had been cleansing the wound, then this sleepover was the sparkly hello kitty bandaid being slapped overtop. They’d talked more-- more about the smaller details, the nooks and crannies, of her relationship with Craig. Laying the dead end relationship out before her friends like a five course dinner for them to dig into and rip to shreds had been therapeutic. The two had wholeheartedly set up camp in “Team: Poppy didn’t deserve all the shit Craig put her through” and while, sometimes, it felt like they were just agreeing with her to agree with her, Poppy appreciated it. She didn’t know what it would look like the next time she walked in the school building, so knowing the powerhouse that was the pair of twins had her back was a relief. Friends, real friends, were great.

\-----

Poppy and the Snack Pack sans Craig had gathered at school extra early so they could talk before they had to disperse for their separate classes. Crammed onto a single picnic table in the courtyard, the large group of teens made extended eye contact.

“Craig is acting like a major dick,” Cheyenne announced to the table.

“He is saying so many mean things on twitter,” Benny said incredulously. “I don’t understand why he is acting like this.”

“Apparently, we didn’t know him as well as we thought we did,” Sharon huffed.

“I blocked him on twitter,” Smith growled. “If I had to keep looking at the shit he was posting, I was going to sock him in the face and I’ve already got too many warnings from the school about violent incidents.”

Poppy cleared her throat and the group all turned their attention to the young woman of the hour. “We’ve a few things to discuss today, my royal court,” she said jokingly. It was little things like this that were the glue that held her together when the times got tough. “The first matter to attend is in regards to the bet.”

“About Azueletta?” Smith asked curiously. 

Poppy smirked. “He knits.” The twins let out a loud whoop and hopped on top the table. 

“Cough up the money, you two,” Sharon turned her eyes on Benny and Smith.

“Shopping trip!” Cheyenne sang happily.

“Oh!” Guy chimed in. “Are you two going to those boutiques? Take me too!”

Sharon smirked. “Sure, but we aren’t spending any of our money on you.” Guy pouted and Cheyenne laughed.

“Furthermore,” Poppy announced in her most regal voice. “Brad is 100% friendship material.” She grinned haughtily at the other teens. “He is a giant dork. I don’t know why people are scared of him.”

Everyone else exchanged glances, before DJ cleared her throat. “So, what _is_ your relationship with Brad like, now that you’ve gotten to know him?” The Snack Pack members all leaned in slightly, their curiosity plainly drooling from their gazes. Not even the twins had managed to weasel anything out of Poppy about where she stood with Brad during the sleepover, their whole conversation being so focused on the situation with Craig.

Poppy merely shared a large grin with the teens. “Obviously, he’s my f--” _riend?_ Wait. Was she his friend? Sure, they’d been hanging out, or maybe it was more of she was following him around a lot, but they were friends, right? Frick. _Frick_. What if she wasn’t his friend? She **needed** to be his friend. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew not being his friend would feel a thousand times worse than not being Craig’s girlfriend.

The rest of the Snack Pack were taking her silence to mean something else entirely. “He’s probably a step up,” Sharon said, “from Craig, I mean.”

“The way Poppy makes him sound,” Guy hummed, “it’s more than a _step_ up from that two-faced, dirty--”

“OH MY GOD!” Poppy loudly announced, jumping to her feet. The snack pack all jumped in unison, startled by her outburst. “Am I his friend?” she whispered more to herself than her friends. She turned a determined gaze on her closest friends. “I’ll see you guys later, I have to double check something.” With that she was gone.

The members of the snack pack exchanged smirks. “Oh, they are totally more than just friends,” DJ said.

\-----

Branch had only just stepped onto school property when a familiar redhead came barreling towards him. He tried to find it in himself to grimace, to ignore her presence-- he couldn’t. Instead, the tall boy just let out a long sigh and gathered the words he knew he’d need on the tip of his tongue.

“Hey, Branch!” She called out, waving a freckled arm in the air. She opened her mouth to say something else and Branch knew it was time to strike.

“No, Poppy. I’m not going to sing in the play.”

The girl froze, eyes wide. Oh double McFrick with an extra side of fries, she had forgotten. Maybe, if she was sure she was his friend, it’d be easier to ask. Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she fell into step beside the grumbly teen. “So, like, what do you think of friendship?” she asked.

Raising a thick eyebrow, the tall boy side-eyed her. He shrugged. Before he could answer, another voice cut in.

“There’s an Emerson quote: _It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them._ ”

A smile lit up the teen’s face as he turned to see his AP English teacher. Poppy couldn’t help but feel a smidgen of jealousy. “Ah,” he chuckled, “I should’ve remembered that one!” Helga came closer and wrapped an arm around Brad’s shoulders, a feat only possible because of her own height.

“Hey, Kingsley. How was your sleepover?” The teacher asked.

Poppy smiled wide. “I really needed it. It helped a lot.”

Helga’s eyes narrowed and a devious smirk stretched across her face. “Don’t forget your mission, kiddo.”

Brad figured he was better off not asking.

They went their separate ways for first period and Poppy was rapidly looking up Ralph Waldo Emerson quotes on her phone. The next time she spotted that tall head of dark hair in the hallway, she practically sprinted to his side.

“Hey Brad,” she breathed out heavily, trying to catch her breath. “D-did you know, hoo, uh,” she glanced back down at her phone. “There’s another Emerson quote about friendship: _The Only Way to Have a Friend is to be One._ ”

Brad raised his eyebrows in surprise. _Now he would comment on their own friendship and--_ “Oh, you’re getting in on the quotation game too? Good luck. Helga shows no mercy.” Poppy was so distracted by her frustration with Brad, she didn’t even notice the eyes following her in the halls.

\-----

Brad was not sure what was going on with Poppy. All day she’d been asking him strange, roundabout questions that he wasn’t sure how to interpret.

_Hey, Brad? If I was tied to train tracks with a locomotive charging straight at me, what would you do?_

_Did you ever go through a homestuck phase? No? If you had to pick a color you were feeling right now, would it be pale or--?_

_What famous fictional duo of characters do you think we’re the most like?_

“ _Brad? Just hypothetically--_ ”

“Poppy,” Brad breathed out slowly, sitting up from the prop he had been spray painting. “Whatever it is you’ve been trying to ask me all day, just ask it.” He gave her a sturdy glare and waited.

The redhead blinked in surprise. “Uh,” she started, suddenly acting far more jittery. A rosy blush was creeping onto her cheeks and she was looking everywhere but at the boy seated before her. “Well,” she muttered as she fiddled with the hem of her shorts. Brad waited. “Are, uh,” _why was she so embarrassed asking this?!_ “Are we friends?”  
Brad’s face was the color of a fire truck. “Oh,” he said softly, seemingly taken aback. “Uh,” it was his turn for his eyes to go on a sightseeing about the room and just about everywhere else that wasn’t Poppy. He remembered how he had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t-- _couldn’t_ \-- be her friend. 

“I guess, yeah,” came fumbling out of his mouth before he could even consider putting two words together to echo his previous determination. Poppy’s blinding grin in response was enough to stop any other thoughts racing through his mind in their tracks.

Poppy proudly marched back to the Snack Pack, hands triumphantly perched atop her hips.

“Hey, Poppy,” DJ called out. “How are you feeling? We know today was probably rough with all the stares and rumors.”

“Hm?” The redhead hummed in response. “I’m fine. Anyways, guys, I can confirm Brad and I are friends,” she announced proudly. 

“Uh,” Smith said slowly, “congrats?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come harass me for updates on tumblr, artsybanchou.  
> I'm probably going to ghost the crap out of everyone a great majority of the time, because I'm awful, but sometimes I'll actually remember social media exists and interact with people.   
> I've been putting together the playlists on spotify. I've also been investigating embedding audio links into the fanfic because this is Trolls and music is so integral to the franchise it'd be hella if I could incorporate it here. That being said, uh, hi. Sorry it took me another large chunk of time to update.


End file.
